A Grievous Redemption
by Jord
Summary: My take on Gears of War 3. Marcus Fenix searches for clues to his father's past, and his connection to the Locust Queen. His quest is impeded, however, by insurmountable odds, as he and Delta Squad make their final stand against vengeance-seeking Locusts.
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

**Warning ahead for potential spoilers for Gears of War 2. Don't read if you've been waiting to play the game.**

**Alternatively, if you are interested, this is basically my take on the 3rd installment of the game. And to give credit where credit is due, some of the plot points are loosely based off some "potentially" leaked information from the game. I have altered it significantly to suit my speculations on where the locusts rose from, Marcus' dad's role in this whole business, etc. The plot is also based off of the journal entries picked up while playing Gears of War 2.**

**I am no expert when it comes to chronology in the Gears universe. I don't know how their calendars are chronicled, so I have simply put in fictitious years in this chapter. I am mostly aware of part of the timeline: how Dr. Cooper perfected lightmass processing, the hoarding of imulsion leading to the Pendulum Wars and finally Emergence Day. But please feel free to correct me if I am wrong.**

**With that, I do hope you enjoy the first chapter - I know I enjoyed writing it.**

* * *

**Circa 3010**

**Pendulum Wars**

**Kubrick Clinics and Laboratories**

"Dr. Wright? Dr. Wright?" called out the woman from the doorway.

She grabbed attention from the middle-aged man at his desk; his head turning towards her. _Jesus, he looked older than she remembered_, she thought. And given that the hiatus lasted a mere month – that was saying something. But it wasn't simply his hair that had aged – that was the one constant that had remained since the beginning of the project – the gray replacing the black had noticeably spread; akin to a web of silvery roots growing and expanding along his head. His eyes appeared listless, and his cheeks; sunken in and hollow.

"It's not as all bad as that, is it?" chirped the man, slightly irked that she found him so adversely noticeable. He couldn't quite label her steady gaze as impertinence, but her wordless insinuations were sufficient to warrant annoyance – at least on his part.

She shook her head – glasses nearly falling off the bridge of her nose – flustered and embarrassed. "Oh...no, sir. Of course not."

"You couldn't lie to save your life, Eliza."

She shut her eyes, abashed and a trifle mortified. Dr. Wright waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Never mind, never mind. I've just been more preoccupied lately. Too much to worry about without having to think about good looks and all."

"I'm sorry to hear about your wife, doctor." said Eliza; extending an invisible olive branch to appease her superior's temper. "I – well, I never thought they would re-take Hyrme. The city had some pretty good defenses."

"Apparently they weren't good enough."

"Yes sir – of course. But I am sorry nonetheless."

Dr. Wright grinded his teeth. He had no reason to be agitated by her words, but he felt particularly cantankerous today. A nasty little habit he was seeping himself in as time wore on. He nodded – the only acknowledgement he could think of to give the discomposed woman. Sympathies aside, there were other matters to attend to. "Why are you here?"

"I've finished the sequence analysis and comparisons."

"On what? The rat cell lines? I told you to have it analyzed in the embryonic tissue – didn't I?"

"Yes, sir. I managed to get the homologous sequences together – they lined up quite well."

"And the gene insertions?" questioned Wright. "Was there any evidence of uptake? Did they reject them?"

"Yes, sir. I mean – no. We're saw cell differentiation, proliferation. Basically, the samples exhibited the same processes as the control blastocysts. The cell lines developed normally."

At this, a gleam of hope, curiousity and interest played across Wright's eyes. The same eagerness carried through to his voice as well. "And what about the live samples? The rats?"

Eliza smiled, pleased and relieved to see him happy – if only for a brief moment. "All grown into adulthood without any marked genetic defects, except for – "

"– except for what?" interrupted Wright, unable to contain himself.

"They are especially aggressive. We can't keep the males in the same cage. We first thought that they were in heat or something, but not anymore. The females aren't as docile either – but they're not nearly as bad as the males. We also observed rapid hair growth. Basically everything that is keratin-based; the hair, claws...show a remarkable rate of development."

"You don't say..." murmured Wright, grinning. He had anticipated such an outcome, but was obviously pleased at its nature.

"Well, the reason I came down here, sir...and mind you, I didn't want to have disturb you in the middle of your work, but it couldn't be helped. You didn't respond to our messages and calls, so we had to pause before we proceed to stage three. We need you to give us the go-ahead."

"Human trials," muttered Wright. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Ten years ago – this kind of trial would never have been possible. There would be protests among the ethicists in the scientific community, organizations of repute would have withdrawn any funding for the project – and it would have come to a deadening halt. All their speculations and plans would be for naught; his unfinished work would have left him hanging – with what-if scenarios plaguing him for the rest of his natural life.

But the Pendulum Wars had changed all of that.

Their victory-starved military were desperate. And, like all desperate men, they would try just about anything. Even if it meant looking to the masochistic ways of exploitation. Even if it meant that the ones being exploited were human beings. Eagerly and voraciously, they sought to nullify what they believed to be the asinine and dogmatic morals that surrounded science. Impositions that ethicists – both past and present – had put into place were just that. Obstacles that prevented them from winning their war. They set about removing such road blocks, followed by the propagation of several projects conjured by very capable think-tanks. There no longer was any red tape. No pending approvals. If it meant a successful conquest – then governmental councils asked no questions. Just get back there and get it done. This was no time to contemplate matters of conscience.

And get it done, is what he did. _Well not quite yet_, mused Wright. There was one last thing on their agenda.

"You have my complete approval, Eliza." he said.

She took in a heavy breath. "We have a limited supply of cryogenic embryos, sir. We can do one round of experiments, but in order for us to have reproducible results – in order for us to make certain we have some positive data, we'll need a larger stock."

Unfazed, Wright thumped his fist on his knee. "Leave that to me, my dear. Go ahead and get this underway. You shouldn't have to be worrying about your supplies – that's my job. The task ahead isn't going to be easy, so you'd better get started. I will find you some new embryos."

She nodded, smiling, and walked away.

An hour later, Wright sat in the same chair, staring at the computer screen. A lengthy list gazed back at him. He reached out for a pen and paper inside his drawer and began to copy down something from the list. Upon finishing, he read out quietly to himself. "Rachel Leeves, Susan Treicel, this is not a world fit to bring a child into. But I'm working on that. Consider this a favour – a favour to your unborn children. They'll never have to see this nasty mess we made. _Never_."

* * *

**3025**

**Fifteen years later**

**New Hope Research Facility**

Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. The nurse, although she preferred to call him the reaper, helped her lean against the soft pillow, and then placed an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. He was alright, really, unassuming and quite gentle. But her interactions with him were almost always confined to her illness. There was no inane chit chat about life, about boys, about nothing. There were just her diseased spasms, and his attending to them. She was certain then, that no matter how long fate kept her weak heart thumping, that when her time came, his would be the last face she would look upon.

After adjusting the elastic that held it in place, he stood upright again and smiled kindly down at her.

"Give it a few moments," her reaper said. "Try to think of something soothing – like a waterfall."

_Now when was the last time she had ever seen a waterfall?_ she thought, annoyed. She scowled, the expression invisible under the mask. _Never,_ she replied to herself. And she had doubts that she ever would.

Her reaper gently stroked her thinning hair and cooed something that chafed her demeanor even more, before walking away to attend to other matters. With a _hiss-click,_ the door shut behind him and she was left alone again with her thoughts. But her thoughts today had become hackneyed and dulled. She had learned from a young age that dependence on the others here for entertainment, and even answers to puzzling questions, was futile. Therefore, she had become her own interrogator, and in turn, the only person around to give her answers.

Some days it was enough to make her scream from boredom. And other days, she was simply too exhausted to be cathartic. At this moment, her eyelids grew steadily heavier, and soon, her mind wandered into the ever-changing realm of dreams.

This was one of those days.

* * *

She awoke with a start, yanking her mask off. Almost immediately, her door opened, and her reaper stumbled in, alarmed. _Damn,_ she thought angrily. _She must have screamed again_.

"Ruth? No, no, don't pull off your mask. Settle down. _Settle down_..." he said, coming to her side.

And then without warning, she lashed out with her feet – still entangled in the bed clothes – kicking him in his stomach. The blow must have been quite powerful, for he was pushed a good several yards from the bed. The mask was on the floor now, and with determined strides she came near him.

Her reaper lay on his back, too disoriented to push her away again. She took advantage of his vulnerable position and pinned him to the floor with her weight. She struck him hard on his right cheek - bone hitting bone, and then, without pausing, she did the same to his left – but with her opposite hand. She maintained the violent pattern of blows, until she felt herself being dragged away by powerful hands.

She had no fear, no remorse. No shame, that is, until she saw the bloodied man before her – lying unconscious on the floor. Words began to make sense again, and everything around her seemed to quiet down into normalcy.

Until she felt a biting jab on her arm before everything went black, and silent.

* * *

**3026**

**Six months later**

**New Hope Research Facility**

His forehead lay pressed onto the cold window pane, and his eyes were closed. He remained standing in this fashion for several moments. Opening his eyes, he saw past the steady rivulets of water running down the glass outside, and into turbulent thoughts.

His mind saw what his eyes could not, and he felt himself relive the children's suffering once again. He'd imagined that after several years, all matters of empathy and morality would be nothing but blunt instruments to be discarded lightly. But it was just the opposite. He felt the emotional repercussions multiply tenfold; it had weakened his resolve considerably. It was not his will to do so, because sometimes he believed that his conscience was beyond his control. It demanded his attention to deeds he should never have been party to. _If there are such things as ghosts_, he thought, _I can believe that now_. He supposed that he had unwittingly resurrected them himself. And from then onwards, their daemons plagued him incessantly.

Many of their voices were eerily distinct, but mostly, it was their sickness, and the sounds thereof that haunted him. Subjects one through twelve and – _no,_ he reminded himself – _they had names_. Joshua and the others had often experienced heavy, laboured breathing. Their weakened immune systems had given way to sporadic bouts of lung infections. He could hear their raspings for air in his head; often due to the development of chronic bronchitis or tuberculosis caused by different mycobacterial strains – as little hollow intakes of air. Like unplayable, deformed wind instruments.

And the breathing difficulties were only the beginning.

The hair loss began around five to six years of age; they looked like veteran cancer patients who had undergone several treatments of chemotherapy. But of course, it wasn't cancer that was killing them. It was themselves. And he had helped bring about that self-destruction. He, and the other scientists – past and present. They had wrought something that he was now certain that nature would _not_ let them get away with.

He remembered the skin discoloration as well. Melanin production – the pigment found in mammalian tissues – was dangerously low. The children could not risk going outside. Exposure to the harmful UV rays of the sun without sufficient melanin could result in mutations, skin cancers. He recalled many a day where one of them would gaze longingly through tinted windows, rub their aching joints unconsciously, and ask to go outside.

_No, you can't_, the orderly would answer, not unkindly. _You know what will happen if you do_.

Some of them insisted on it, one short day in the sunshine could surpass a lifetime spent within closed doors, they believed. But they weren't making decisions. They weren't calling the shots.

_We were_, he thought. _Because we knew what was best. Because father always knows best_.

Turning his eyes away from the window, he stared at the framed photograph on his desk. He picked it up and looked at it; obvious tenderness in his eyes. In it, he was smiling, his arm around a young disheveled boy of around twelve. The boy's blue eyes were striking – discernable even within a photograph, and it held all the hopes, dreams and anticipation that youth could bring. He was wearing his uniform, with badges impeccably pinned to his suit, boots shiny and new, a clean-shaven face – everything in place except his hair.

The man laughed quietly, and ran his hands through his own unkempt, dark hair, briefly musing on such similarities. He was trying to search for the good in this boy, the man he would become – his son – something to mirror his own. But he couldn't help but feel that for all his efforts, his son remained the better man. He wouldn't have made the same mistakes. He couldn't. He would see to it that the sins of the father would not be passed down to the son.

Putting the photograph down, he picked up a small tape recorder on his desk and turned it on.

"_Marcus, I don't know where to begin. If you were here, you would tell me to begin at the start. But you see, it's more complicated than that. It all came about from noble intentions. Or so we were told, I suppose. A very simple goal. War is horrible. And the only thing that could overshadow war would be if we brought it on ourselves_." He paused; too many thoughts trafficked through his mind. His words sounded muddled and tumultuous. He breathed in, trying to regain his composure. After a moment, he sat down in his chair and continued.

"_When Helen Cooper refined the lightmass process – I was ecstatic. Well, more relieved than ecstatic. I thought that this – a renewable source of energy – not nuclear, not cold fusion – was our saving grace. You must understand, son, that it was a virtuous act, another deed that stemmed from benevolence. It was meant for progression and not for destruction. But I suppose altruism – for all of its benefits – is not immune to corruption._

_I never could understand why Sera didn't work with our developing neighbours. If we took that imperative first step – we would have been the perfect model for our compatriots. We would have shared, and shared alike. But, you see, Marcus, near-sightedness was our undoing. Self-preservation demanded that we stockpile imulsion; I believe we coveted it unlike any other limited resource in the past. We also underestimated the smaller nations. We were too busy basking in the rays of this new discovery to recognize what we had deprived them of. We did not foresee how desperate they would become, how they would band together to take us down._

_And take us down...they almost did. I suppose desperation begets desperation, and this is where my work comes in. We needed something greater than imulsion, greater than lightmass bombs to squash our enemies. _

_I...hope you can forgive me for what I did...for what I'm about to tell you. And coward that I am, I also hope that when you hear this, I will not be with you. I cannot bear to see your face. You will rightfully be ashamed of your fool of a father. We tampered with nature, Marcus. We were...__**are**__...playing god. And we were arrogant enough to believe that we would be successful._

_It sounded good at the start – just like I said before. To my credit, I suppose I wasn't told the whole truth, but I had my suspicions. And I should have acted on them. I should have turned my back on it all. But I was too ambitious and too full of myself to resist the opportunity to do this kind of work._

_Dr. Samson told us that it was time for an era of peace. And that something drastic had to be done, and that we were the only individuals courageous enough for the undertaking. He told us that our children's children would never know the hardships of war if we were successful. But we had to sacrifice in order to achieve this. It would be a worthy sacrifice, of course...but painful nonetheless._

_We ate into his lies greedily. We were given the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to prove our mettle. We wanted...we – oh, God, what have we done, Marcus? What have we done? _"

His voice broke down, and he paused the tape. How could he tell his only son that he had helped destroy his future? How could he bear the shame of it?

_Tomorrow_, he told himself. _I can finish this tomorrow. I haven't the nerve for this anymore_.


	2. Chapter 2

**1 week later**

He brought in the platter of food as silently as he could. Glancing sideways at the solitary window, he noted that the first rays of dawn were already prying their way inside the room. Amber-glowing light was cast upon a heavily stocked bookshelf, and was expanding further inwards – just touching the foot of the occupied bed. He laid the platter to rest on a small end table, and drew the dark curtains across – abruptly shutting out the light. A momentary spasm of thought or conscience roused him; he remembered how the other rooms weren't even allowed the luxury of curtains – the windows were framed by cold, rigid steel shutters. But she was an exception to the rule. _Come to think of it_, he wondered sadly, _she was an exception to a lot of rules_.

"Ruth?" he called out softly, as he began to open a small carton of milk, pouring it into a glass. "You awake?"

A voice – small yet firm – came out from under the bed covers. "I'm sorry, Carl."

Her reaper sighed. "We've been through this already, kiddo. You just needed to vent your anger. Water under the bridge. Come on now, sit up like a good girl and eat your breakfast."

"But I'm sorry. I...I feel like it's not going to go away. Or stop." She sat up slowly, grunting as she did so. The arthritic-like pain in her joints could not be assuaged in the mornings, she had learned. Each movement her body had to make was conducted delicately. Frequently, she felt like the protagonist in a cheesy action movie – the one who had seconds left to diffuse an explosive device – and more often than not, she felt like she was both the diffuser and the bomb.

Her slow and steady movements did not go unnoticed by her reaper, and he smiled wanly. "You want the cortisone shots? I also have some Valium here..." he reached into his pockets, pulled out a small, translucent bottle of pills, and presented it to her.

Ruth shook her head. "No thanks. I don't think steroid injections or sedatives are particularly..._receptive _to my condition." She sighed. "You know what, though?"

"What, Ruth?"

"You'd think that Dr. Doom would have put two and two together already. He administers the shots, and then hours later I have an episode."

He shrugged nonchalantly, remaining silent, arranging the food on her bed tray.

She continued. "I think he knows. I think he does it deliberately and he keeps count of it; he must be tabulating damn statistical scores..." her voice tapered off into silence. She caught her reaper looking at her patronizingly. "Oh please, Carl," she said, "I'm not that big of an imbecile. He's no more trying to cure me than, than – " Ruth paused to find the appropriate words, " – than when Dr. Frankenstein thought he was creating blessed life."

"Dr. Samson isn't Dr. Doom and he isn't Dr. Frankenstein, Ruth. He's trying to help you kids out. The cure for your sickness isn't something that can be conjured out of thin air. Your medication has to go through numerous rigorous trials – it's the harsh truth – but it's the truth nevertheless. They're working their asses off to help you guys out. Give you a second shot at a normal life." he explained.

"Like the normal life he gave Adele, you mean?" asked Ruth, looking him squarely in the eyes.

He remained silent, a little at a loss for words. Adele's death had had a particular impact on Ruth – who had not been close to any of the other children. Carl had surmised that she had taken to Adele's unassuming nature, given the fact that she had asked nothing from Ruth save for companionship. It was a friendship that was short-lived, however, as complications from her treatments worsened, leading to her eventual death.

"They did what they could," muttered Carl quietly.

"They did what they wanted, Carl!" exclaimed Ruth, her voice rising. "They kept increasing the dosage even though she was getting sicker! They were studying how her body responded to increased medication even though it was the medication that was killing her!"

Carl sucked in his teeth and let out a breath. "Adele died because her heart was operating at thirty percent of its capacity," he paused briefly, as if considering something. "Besides, where did you come up with that bullshit conclusion anyway?"

"_She told me. She showed me_." Face red, Ruth reached over to her bedside table, and despite considerable pain, her hands fumbled around in the drawer, eventually pulling out a modest little notepad. "She was smart, Carl. She wrote down everything whenever she could. And she hid it from Samson. And the other nurses. And then, when she knew that whatever hope she had left in her life had been obliterated by these devils who work here, she gave it to me."

Carl swallowed. "Why are you showing it to me?"

"Because you have a mite more of a conscience than the others here. Or that's my hope, at least. Or maybe because I don't want to end up like she did. I'm sick of being attended to by doctors telling me what's in _my_ best interest. I want to take charge of my own fate, I want to die the way I choose to die. I want to go out in the sun and feel some real warmth, I want to know what it feels like to be in love, I want to know what it feels like to hit a home run, I want to see waterfalls and I want to eat pepperoni pizza, and I want to run. _I want to run away from this place_ – so badly you have no idea. You know...the worse part of this is...it's that I feel like this place was meant to be my tomb even before I was born." With that, she fell back into her pillow – exhausted and spent. As she stared at her food before her, she spoke quietly, and with diminished ardour. In fact, her outburst seemed to have left her feeling dry and hollow. She held out the little notepad towards him.

"Take it. Show it to your Dr. Samson. Burn it or read it or whatever." She shut her eyes and tried to catch her breath. "Besides, how can I leave this place anyway?" She let out a bitter laugh. "I can't even walk to that door without falling over."

* * *

Carl stepped out of the small cafeteria and walked out the back door, into the open. He stared at the dumpster to his left and then turned his back on it, pulling out a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. As he inhaled, he felt the warm smoke spread into his lungs, anticipating the calming lull of the nicotine as it took effect on his frayed nerves.

_Because you have a mite more of a conscience than the others here_. Her words rang loudly in his mind.

"Come on, Carl," he told himself aloud. "Get a grip. It's just work. It's a job. Put it on the backburner – shift's gonna be over in a few hours."

_You don't seriously believe they're __**helping**__ these kids, do you?_ This time it was his voice that he heard. It was his mite of a conscience. _I mean, seriously, you've gotta be one dumb fuck to be taken in by that_.

_But I signed a non-disclosure agreement. It's a binding contract. I do what they tell me to do, I ask no questions, and it pays the bills_.

_You're party to some twisted shit, Carl. Makes no difference whether you're the executioner or the doctor taking the dead man's pulse. Either way, you're helping them pull the switch_.

"Shit." he muttered aloud. More thought didn't seem to be required. Angry and nervous now, he yanked the half-burnt cigarette out of his mouth and threw it onto the ground. He stepped on it hard, extinguishing it.

He turned around and made his way back into the building.

* * *

**5 days later**

A voice on the small intercom chirped to life, and the man approached it with a handful of papers.

"_Dr. Fenix? There's an orderly here to see you_," it said.

He put his papers down on his desk and spoke back into the communications device. "Ah hell. Not now, Kelly. I've got a lot of paperwork here that needs to be turned in first thing Monday. Besides, tell him to send in his complaints to HR. I can't do anything about it anyway."

"_He says it's a private matter, doctor. He's not going to discuss it with HR_." replied the voice.

"Can't he discuss it with his shrink? His priest?" asked Fenix, hopefully.

"_Uh...no, sir_."

He sighed. Realizing that the back-and-forth banter only served to waste more time, he relented. "Alright. Send him in."

* * *

Carl walked into the room tentatively. His apprehensions did not go unnoticed by the older man, who gestured for Carl to take a seat on a sofa against the wall. His visitor did so, placing his hands on his lap.

"You want something to drink? I have some scotch..." offered Fenix, believing that perhaps a little alcohol would put the man at ease. The younger man shook his head, turning down the offer. Fenix raised his eyebrows questioningly, and smiled. "I'm not going to bite, son. What's on your mind?"

"It's not you, doc. Well, I suppose in a way it is. I can't put what I'm about to ask you in a nicer way, but I need to know something. Is what I say going to stay within this room? Because if it isn't, I need to know now."

Fenix sat down in a chair opposite him. "The receptionist said your name is Carl Riviera, right? Can I call you Carl?" The other man nodded. "Now I don't know the nature of what you're about to tell me, Carl, but if it has anything to do with the patients, that would be something you would want to inform Dr. Niles Samson about. You see – not many of our staff are aware of this, save for Dr. Samson and some others – but I'm resigning from my post. As of three months from now, I'm not going to be working here anymore."

"That's why it has to be you, doctor."

Fenix shook his head, perplexed. "_Me_? For what? I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Are you going to repeat what I'm about to say to anyone else? I need to know." insisted Carl.

A beat. Fenix closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully and tiredly. "I don't see how I'm better than anyone else here, but...yes, you have my word. Unless this information threatens anyone's life, then it will not leave this room."

"What about your receptionist?" questioned Carl nervously. "She knows I came into talk to you."

"Kelly can be trusted. And I won't tell her what we talked about anyway. We can always just make something up. But what's all this about? You caught me at a particularly stressful time...there's a lot of data I need to organize for the guy who's replacing me. Is what you have to tell me so important?"

Carl nodded. He'd thought a lot about what he was going to say, how he was going to say it. His envisioning and planning came at the cost of a lot of sleep, and his nerves were not the better for it. He knew about Adam Fenix; the other nurses and orderlies spoke well of him. But Carl had needed more reassurance than what congeniality and modesty had to offer. He needed loyalty and he needed someone who was willing to sacrifice. Their work, well-being, safety and their way of life – these were but a few chips that they would have to place on the table.

The man he had visualized taking into his confidence was certainly not the one he had decided to choose. But things hardly work out as planned, and perhaps his choice would serve to fool others, just as it had fooled him.

He had observed Adam Fenix before – and what he had mistaken for lethargy and inattentiveness, he had now inferred to be pangs of conscience. The doctor no longer administered the prescribed medication to patients himself. He would skip scheduled visits, misplace medical files, and in one instance had even written in incorrect – but markedly reduced – dosages for the terminally ill patients.

No reputable doctor would play his hand so carelessly, unless of course, he had wanted to lose. And Adam Fenix was no blockheaded simpleton. Carl had then concluded that if the man had indeed felt some remorse, an abrupt resignation resulting from that guilt would come under considerable scrutiny and suspicion. He _had_ to be shrewd about it – there was no other alternative. The lack of attention to his work and his patients was but an act. In his charade, Doctor Fenix was not a team-player anymore. And the best thing for him was to resign himself to retirement; give himself a dignified exit. Or that was what his colleagues were made to believe.

Of course, Carl's deductions could have been dreadfully wrong. And he could present his case to the good doctor only to have him run back to his superiors with this traitorous news. But the past few days of moping and strategizing had finally broken Carl's threshold of tolerance, and he had to drive on his instincts or throw in the towel entirely.

There was nothing else for it, he guessed. _Well, here goes_, he told himself.

"The patients...the kids here," he began, "they're being tested on."

"Of course they are. They're ill." said Fenix. "We're here to fix the problem and find a cure."

Carl noted that the man's voice lacked conviction. He seemed to be stating something for the purpose of it simply being on the record. The younger man seized this possibility and continued. "What I mean to say is...the people who started this research – and I don't mean to insinuate that you began it, although you have to admit that both you and I have helped perpetuate it – were never looking for a cure. They're using the children here as instruments. Or maybe they're just _refining_ them to be what they want them to be. Do you understand me?"

Adam Fenix stood unnaturally still. It was as if he was dealt a hefty blow. The others feel it too, he realized. Well, some of them anyway. He had believed that leaving this place to its demise – and he was sure that it would come – would close the book on what he had done, what he had seen. But that wasn't enough, apparently. The coming of this orderly seemed to be an advent of some larger conscience. As if fate was extending him an opportunity to fix things, even if it seemed a little too late.

"Yes, I understand." he answered quietly.

"Good. I've been trying – ever since I started work here – to make out what the hell happened to these kids. I've never seen anything like it before. It makes stage IV cancer look like a common cold. I thought it was some kind of hybrid virus. But most viruses are contagious; and as far as I know, no one who's worked here caught what those kids have. No precautions were even enforced to prevent spreading. If it was just the immunity problems like lung infections and swollen joints, I could accept some bullshit story of a mutated..._something_. But the random violence – I _don't _see and I _can't_ see how it fits in. One of the doctors tried to tell me the kids were having epileptic seizures. I told him, _come on, doc, I've been in this business for twelve years now. I know an epileptic seizure when I see one. And this ain't no muscle spasm_. He looked right back at me and told me to just do my job and leave the diagnosing to them.

Doc, those kids are dangerous. About six months ago, one of them beat me unconscious. I weigh a hundred and eighty pounds, and this kid, she weighs ninety. I work out four days of the week. She's bed-ridden for a good portion of the day, heck, a good portion of her _life_. Now you tell me that there's nothing strange about that."

"What are you saying, Carl?" asked Fenix, with hesitance. "You want to lock these kids up within padded walls?"

Carl leaned forward. "No. _I want to help them_."

"Why?"

"Because I have evidence that whatever shit is being done _to_ them, is being done willfully and deliberately. They might be doing testing here, but these tests are the furthest thing from a cure. We have no right to – if you'll pardon my language – fuck with their lives."

"Where'd you get the evidence from?"

"Adele. One of the patients who died last year. She kept a journal detailing every symptom, every anomaly. I've read it. I have it."

"She could be hallucinating – some of the stuff we gave them are pretty strong sedatives." fumbled Fenix.

"You and I both know that's bullshit. And you know what? I think you know. Maybe you didn't know all along, but you sure as hell know now. That's why you're quitting."

"But what can I do, Carl? I don't pull the strings around here. I can't tell Dr. Samson what to do – I can't stop the research – "

"No. No, you can't. But you could help them get out. There have got to be at least twenty of them taking this torture. And I'm certain that now at least one of them is aware that there is no cure, no hope for something better."

Fenix rose from his seat. He walked slowly to his desk and absently rearranged a file lying on it. _What was the point of doing something now, anyway? We've already wrought the damage_, he thought. And he wasn't the man for this kind of job. Glancing to the right side of his desk, he studied the back of the photo frame of him and his son. He turned it so as to face him, and his shoulders drooped.

"What did they do to them?" came out Carl's voice from behind him.

"Son," breathed out Fenix, "you really don't want to know. In fact, it would be better for you if you didn't. I can tell you though, that eighteen of those twenty children are not going to make it this year. We can't save them all."

"Okay." acknowledged Carl. If their history had to be kept in the dark for the sake of their future, then so be it. And if eighteen of them would not pull through, then that was all the more reason to save the rest. "If what was done can't be undone, then we have to do what we can for the two that remain."

"It's more complicated than that. They're the only ones who're responding positively to the treatment."

"So what?"

"_So_...everyone is going to be focusing on them. They'll be watched more often than not. There will be more tests, more observations. We can't just say we're taking them to go to the bathroom and then make a break for it!" responded Fenix, frustrated.

"Then what do you propose we do?"

"We have to point them in another direction. We have to show them what they want to see." replied Fenix. Schemes and strategies began to come to life and orient themselves in his mind. He sat back down. "But first," he began, "I need to know everything recorded in that journal. Our patients – children though they may be – are unstable and violent. We need to know what we're going up against on both sides. If we can't save the kids from themselves, then this whole plan goes up in smoke."

Carl leaned back into his seat. "Okay. But I think...I think I'm gonna need that glass of scotch now, doc."

* * *

**Circa 3043**

**15 years after E-Day**

_He moves about the Locust Palace – one of the many homes to the locust Queen – with considerable ease. He knows where he came from and he knows where it is he's going to. Four drones guarding the entrance to an antechamber acknowledge his arrival and they step aside. He is a stark contrast to the other occupants here; his face is pale and his skin is smooth. Theirs is a mottled gray, the epidermis uneven and tough – like leather._

_He smiles at them as he walks by, and they return the gesture with nods. The antechamber could be called cavernous but it is certainly no cave. The ceilings and pillars display ornate engravings; rich in texture and sometimes symbolic. He has little or no concept of the allegoric nature of the carvings, and it makes him all the more eager to discover their origins. But the Queen, let alone the locusts, does not fully trust him yet. They have had many a conversation about battles and wars; the battle at Ephyra is brought up frequently, but when thoughts turn to history and culture, she grows distant and a little impatient._

_This time he suspects that she will perhaps talk with him about their previous conversation. The Queen detests the imulsion that surrounds her people and her land. He, on the other hand, does not. He is aware of the dangers, but he has always been successful at quelling the response of fear to ignorance. After all, it was he who had devised the concept of lightmass explosives. Even she couldn't deny its effectiveness. But she was..._

_He pauses in mid-thought, as the Queen approaches him through a side entrance, escorted by one of her High Priests and a member of the elite guards, the one she calls Skorge. In the length of time that he has known her, Skorge was a frequent companion – not in the friendly sense of the word, but more as a protective symbol – and yet, he never participates in any discourse with them. Perhaps he doesn't need to, he realizes_.

"Adam," _speaks the Queen, addressing him with the utmost composure_.

"Your highness." _Adam bows, before the Queen gestures for him to arise_.

"I do not feel like sitting down today." _The tough tendrils emerging from her spine move about slowly in the air, each one akin to a cat twirling its tail_. "Would you like to walk with me?"

"It would be my pleasure," _he responds_.

"Good. I would like to hear about your son today, Adam. He intrigues me. If he is anything like his father, then he would have my utmost respect."

_Adam nods and moves beside her. They begin to walk, side by side, towards the doorway in the room_.

* * *

He woke from slumber later than he would have liked, given the nature of his dream, and breathed out slowly. He tried to tell himself that dreams were the stuff of nonsense, that his subconscious was probably working overtime. But their exchange with the Queen back at Nexus so many weeks ago had left him with uneasy and unanswered questions. Her referral to him being Adam Fenix's son unnerved him. Furthermore, and more frightening, was the manner in which she had spoken of his father. _Was that respect in her voice_, he wondered?

He shook his head, still drowsy.

Wakeful consciousness brought with it a pounding headache, and a dry feeling at the back of his throat. He swung his legs over the side of the rickety cot and held his head in his hands. It felt like morning, but dawn brought no consequence.

He never did like looking at the time – over the years and the battles, keeping track of ticking minutes and hours only counted for something if there was a goal to be reached. But in between, it never seemed to matter that much. A lot of things didn't seem to matter that much. War was war and to analyze it and dissect it could leave one feeling breathless and a little crazy, to say the least.

The dead were the lucky ones, anyway.

"Marcus?" called out a familiar voice from outside the room. "You up?"

"Am now."

His friend came into the room, wiping his wet face on a small towel. "They're asking us to do some recon tonight. You up for it?"

"Ah hell, Dom, doesn't really matter if I am or I'm not, does it?"

Dom smiled and threw the towel onto his own bed. "No, guess not."

Marcus rose from his bunk and pulled out his boots from underneath it. "Any reason why they want us this time? Can't Hoffman get some others to handle it?"

His friend shrugged. "I've learned that asking questions never really puts me at ease anymore. Least of all from Hoffman. All I know is, we have two washed-up reavers on the south beach. I guess he thinks that they're starting to up the ante now – sending in reavers. Boats are probably more of a target – trying to get to us by air is probably their next move."

Marcus shook his head. "Fucking locusts." He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension within. "Dumb as hell, but they're persistent. I'll give 'em that."

Dom rifled through his duffel bag, pulling out some of his body armor – a tattered yet usable Kevlar vest, and started to adjust the blade plates inside. "Look at it this way. We're somewhere that's hard to touch. One way in and one way out. At least this way we can see them coming."

"I don't enjoy being cornered." responded Marcus. "That's all."

"Who does? But we don't have much of a choice. To be frank, man, I think this idea of Prescott's was pretty good – "

" – Prescott didn't think this one up, Dom." interrupted Marcus. "He's got too much cotton for brains to think of backup plans unless he's up for re-election – and that won't be anytime soon. It was a fallback option the COG must have thought up years ago. Prescott just got handed the uniform and baton from brass that have long since died, and now he's just in the position to take credit for it."

Dom sighed and smiled. His friend's disdain for politics and the people who bent to its manipulations were beneath his contempt, and he wasn't afraid to voice it. Dom, on the other hand, was more or less immune to political metamorphoses. "Prescott or not, without this island to go to we'd be screwed. Admit it. I mean, where would we go?"

"Elingrad is still standing." muttered Marcus, unwilling to concede so easily.

"The place is a ghost town. And there, we gotta worry about emergence holes, aerial attacks...it would be Jacinto all over again. No, it would be worse," corrected Dom, "They could sink Elingrad within a day."

Marcus grunted and stood up, stretching his arms. "Orsa is no picnic either."

Dom pulled out another set of armor and threw it towards his companion. "But it's the only picnic we can have. And I don't know about you, but I'll take it."

Marcus began to strap on his armor and turned to Dom, smiling and relenting for the first time that day. "I never did like settling for less, but I guess it'll have to do. This isn't paradise island, but it's been a long time since I've been able to sleep for eight hours straight." He thumped his comrade on the back. "Come on, Dom, let's go grab something to eat."


	3. Chapter 3

By the time they reached the southern tip of the island, dusk had settled into night. It was cloudless, however, allowing for the moonlight to illuminate paths before them. The flora on the island was a refreshing change from the decrepit and derelict buildings of Jacinto or Montevado. There were no sunken cities, no sporadic fires, no emergence holes, no stranded camps, nothing that could attest to the fact that they had been engaged in a long and bitter war. The island itself seemed like a sanctuary of sorts, a remnant of peace that only aged, battle-hardened men could allude to.

The two soldiers, driving along in silence, took in this tranquility with quiet unease. It was difficult to attune themselves to it, seeing as how it was such a contrast from the turmoil they had been immersed in on the mainland.

Dom felt his muscles tighten whenever something moved, and he frequently caught himself glancing down at his radar screen to ascertain whether they were in danger or not. And each time he did so, he breathed out in relief. It was another false alarm.

His anxieties did not escape his companion, who – without grinning but with humour in his voice – spoke. "You might want to get out your shotgun now. I thought I saw a raccoon to our right."

Dom heaved out another sigh. "Yeah, yeah. I get it."

"Just relax, will ya?" encouraged Marcus. "You were harping all this morning about this place. And now that you're out and about, you're jumping at rats and squirrels."

"Hey, you don't look so thrilled yourself," Dom nodded over at him.

Marcus grunted in response. True, he did feel as if this little peninsula was destined to be another casualty of war, but it wasn't that which unnerved him the most. He felt cut off, collared into a corner. Sooner or later, the Locusts would discover their position. And then the situation would present itself as a terrific chance for the Queen to win this war once and for all. Everyone in one place at one time.

It would be like killing hundreds of birds with one stone.

He was dead certain that she would like that. Hell, she would revel in such a fortuitous opportunity.

Marcus turned right along the beaten path and tried to set his concerns aside. _At least for the moment_, he consoled himself, _we only have two dead reavers_. It was a step-down from the four damaged boats that had washed ashore three weeks ago. And anyway –

"Can reavers make it this far?" questioned Dom suddenly.

Marcus, disturbed from his sullen reverie, asked, "What?"

"How do you think the reavers made it all the way here? It's gotta be a hell of a long haul from Jacinto. Or Nexus even."

Marcus shrugged. "Beats me. Maybe they have stopover flights."

"Yeah," chuckled Dom, "At least the Locusts must be getting some good use out of their frequent flier miles." He wiped some mud off the radar screen. "But seriously though, how can they?"

"I don't think they could. That's why they're dead on the beach."

"Does this mean that they know where we are?"

"You mean: does the _Queen_ know where we are," corrected Marcus.

"You don't seriously think she survived that?" he asked, incredulous.

"She hauled ass out of Nexus fast, Dom. Whether it was in their plans to sink Jacinto or not, she had no intentions of going down with the ship. You take my word for it – she's as alive as you and me."

Dom found it hard to resign himself to this disturbing concept. But he realized that to dismiss the thought entirely would be foolish. "Okay. So _supposing_ she's still in charge, do you think she knows where we're at?"

Marcus shook his head. "Nah. Believe me, if she knew, she'd come at us full force. And she wouldn't be wasting time. She probably sent out some scouts."

"Kinda dumb, though, dontcha think?"

"How?"

"If we flooded the hollow, you'd think that she would give some thought to sending out her reavers and men – knowing that a lot of 'em probably won't make it back." wondered Dom.

"Which can only mean one thing – she's either pretty frantic about finding us or we only made a little dent in their plans by flooding the hollow."

Dom frowned. He would hate to think that the truth lay in the latter reason. Jacinto was a costly price to pay, even if they eradicated a good portion of the Locusts. But if the COG were to discover that their hordes had hardly been diminished, all that they had thought they knew about the Locusts would be proven to be false. And all their theorizing and surmising could crumble like a poorly-constructed sand castle.

It was painful just thinking about it.

"Man, I just hope she's desperate. Least that way, maybe she'll trip up." he concluded.

"I hope so too, Dom." responded Marcus, as he hit the gas harder and drove into the foliage.

* * *

"Lovely night for a stroll." Marcus quipped, a scowl on his face and boltok pistol in hand.

And it was indeed. The moon seemed more radiant than ever, its silvery light dancing off of the water's surface. The gentle swishing sounds of the waves were rhythmic and soothing. That, coupled with the aroma of distinct salt-tinged air, permeated their senses in a manner through which they had forgotten they possessed.

For a split second, Dom's memory brought back the acrid smell of charred bodies to the surface, and he hastily submerged this venomous knowledge. Why is it, he wondered, that he couldn't enjoy brief moments of peaceful solitude without having to rouse memories of darker beasts? Was this just another idiosyncrasy that he should chalk up to human nature? He couldn't quite respond to such musings, so he continued walking down the stretch of shore, staring up ahead into the distance.

"Command, are you there? This is Delta." came out the gravel-like voice beside him, a little quieter than usual.

"_Affirmative,_" came out the tinny voice of the dispatcher.

A small emotion within Marcus had hoped to hear the familiar voice of his friend and guide, Anya Stroud. She had been a constant throughout their missions; the planting of the lightmass bomb and the sinking of Jacinto. Despite the fact that she was physically absent during their battles – big and small – there was a certain strength about so simple a connection, something he realized that he had taken for granted all the while. He couldn't help but feel a little disappointed to note that she wasn't on the other end this time. Not to mention that this fashion of self-awareness made him feel slightly more irritated than usual.

"We're at the site. You got a bead on our location?" he said, eager to get this little excursion over with.

"_Affirmative, Sergeant. You want to head about two clicks due...north-east of you. Once you find them, radio in and let us know what you find. Command out_."

Dom, who had paused walking, turned around. "Wish they let us have JACK. I'm about done with having to write reports in triplicate. Makes me feel like I have a desk job."

"Hey, I'd take a desk job over what we do," surmised Marcus , as they proceeded to pace forward towards their destination.

Dom laughed, clearly entertained at the idea. "Yeah right! You might be a lot of things, Marcus, but you're sure as heck not that guy in a cubicle, going at it nine to five."

"We'll never know now though, will we?"

Dom shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. Maybe a month from now every Locust will die from skin cancer and us COGs will go into retirement."

Marcus' face broke into a slight grin. "Don't have faith that we can pull it off ourselves?" he asked. "Think we'll have to wait for tumours to finish them off?"

"_That_...or some kind of plague specific to Locusts." responded Dom, very aware of the possible irony of his statement. "If Locust numbers haven't been decimated by now, frankly, I think we're screwed."

Marcus glanced at his friend. "You going pessimistic on me?"

"No…I'm going realistic. This place – maybe it only delays the inevitable, know what I mean?" Dom cast his eyes down, some truths were too hard to stomach. "But, we do what we can do, right?"

His companion remained silent. He figured that if words of consolation felt contrived, then more often than not, they _were_ contrived. And then it was better just to keep his trap shut.

* * *

Even through the soft glow of the moonlight, the large, dark humps weren't quite discernible. The mass – which lay several yards away – gave off a distorted silhouette; it was uneven and unearthly. But most importantly, Marcus reminded himself, it remained unmoving, and hopefully – quite dead.

Upon closer inspection, the pair noted the splayed-out legs and tendrils of the huge beasts, their face shields in place, but armor absent. But it was difficult to see anything in this light, so Marcus decided that he ought to start searching for the more obvious and accessible clues amongst the bodies.

"You see anything alive under them?" he asked.

Dom pulled out a small thermal sensor from his bag and bent over, running the device alongside the body closest to him. With negative results from the first, he began a similar procedure on the second. A few minutes later, he looked back up at his companion and shook his head.

"I don't see anything here, either," muttered Marcus.

"Armor's missing." noted Dom. "Looks like they had no carry-on luggage either," he said, pointing at the absence of weaponry of any type.

Marcus set his jaw tightly. "These are scouts. I'd bet my life on it."

Dom paused, the gears of thought running furiously in his mind. Arriving at a conclusion he wasn't sure he liked, he spoke nonetheless. "Scouts are supposed to report in, aren't they?"

"Yeah..." began Marcus, starting to see what his friend what getting at.

"Then they should have homing devices," finished Dom.

"Yeah. They should."

Dom crinkled his forehead and swore. He suddenly turned to his friend, hopeful. A few weeks before, some gunboats – empty and passenger-less – had washed up ashore. If no devices were on board, then there was a solid chance that they would find nothing here either. "Did we find anything on the boats that came in a couple weeks back?"

"No. But the mines got to the boats before we could. Whatever homing beacons were strapped onto 'em got blown to bits."

Dom frowned and sat on his haunches to get a closer look at the face plates on one of the reavers. Marcus stared at one in turn, and then came over to his friend's side. "Could be anywhere. Hell, it could be in their gut for all we know."

Dom scrunched his face in disgust. "I thought these things smell bad on the outside..." he began.

"...Nothing for it, Dom. We gotta cut 'em open. I'm gonna call it in first."

As Dom stood up and groaned, dreading the loathsome task before them, Marcus started speaking into the radio strapped to his shoulder. Command didn't seem nonplussed about it – but then again, he thought – they weren't going to be the ones doing the slicing and dicing. After a few more questions, and much to his relief, however, they concluded that someone more able and knowledgeable about Locust and reaver anatomy would be sent in. On hearing the news, Dom's concerns were allayed and he cheered up considerably. He zipped his bag shut, and sat on the ground.

"You know, I heard that there's crabs in these waters," he said.

"You don't say." Marcus sat down on the sand.

"She loved crab," mused Dom, more to himself than to his companion.

Marcus said nothing, realizing that despite the closure Dom found on Maria's whereabouts, she was hardly the farthest thing on his mind. Recently, he'd noticed that Dom had difficulties speaking her name, and whenever she was the subject of conversation, it never lasted quite long and seemed more of personal reminiscing than anything else.

"Baird can't stand seafood, though. Especially crab." muttered Dom, predictably shifting their discourse onto another target. "Told me how he'd eaten stuffed crab a while back. We were holed up at this empty bar one time – behind a counter – we had Locusts closing in from one side, and a couple of bullets hit some glass behind us. And then he turns to me and tells me that he's allergic to crab meat. Told me that it makes him break out in hives – and then says seafood has too much mercury."

Marcus couldn't help but laugh.

Dom shook his head in disbelief, chuckling at the memory. "I told him that if he could single-handedly win this war, we'd start a campaign against mercury in seafood. And if he couldn't, he should just shut up and fight." He smiled again and looked out into the water, musing.

Moments like those – nightmarish though they seemed – were vivid. Sometimes nauseatingly so. But here..._here_, everything object was an antithesis of its counterpart on the Locust-savaged mainland. The setting seemed so idyllic that it could only be a dream. That, or it was the calm center to the storm. He gazed at the horizon of the sea as they waited, every now and then looking about himself for the arrival of their locust-expert, but his eyes always returned to the tide before them.

"Dom," spoke Marcus after a while, disrupting their silence. "You see that?"

Imagining that the man command had sent down had arrived, he turned towards the tree-line behind them. But Marcus was pointing in the opposite direction, out towards the ocean, his gaze fixed on something in the waters. It took Dom a second or two to spot it, but by then it was closer, though hard to distinguish. A lump of something bobbed up and down awkwardly, being carried towards them with the aid of the ocean's current.

Marcus didn't waste any time. "Wait here." he instructed, as he ran into the water. The waves sloshed up around his knee-high boots, and he reached and grasped the object, dragging it along the wet sand up and back onto the drier shore.

Dom jogged over to him.

He turned the object onto his back, only to reveal the bloated body of a human, his face swollen and apparently scarred beyond recognition. "Shit." muttered Marcus.

"One of ours?" asked Dom quietly.

"Don't think so." Marcus bent over the body, examining the corpse's attire carefully. His eyes caught sight of a wet rag tied tightly to the deceased man's right arm. He untied it with little difficulty and then held it up in the moonlight. "Recognize this?" he asked his comrade.

"Stranded..." mumbled Dom, perceiving the cloth to be something most stranded wore – signifying which group or leader they owed their allegiance to. He took the rag from Marcus, studying it at a closer range. It was pale cream...or yellow. Yes, it was yellow, he decided. He'd seen it quite often, but that was a long time ago.

"It's Franklin." said Dom, handing it back, and then corrected himself. "One of Franklin's, I mean. Gotta be. I've seen his guys wear it."

"They're using the survivors to get to us." concluded Marcus. "How many do you think survived?" he asked the question his companion dreaded to put forth.

"I don't know."

"Shit. If there are more..."

"_I know_."

"Hoffman and Prescott aren't going to mount a rescue mission for 'em."

"They'll say it isn't worth the risk," agreed Dom. "You still wanna call it in?"

Marcus stared at the corpse for what seemed like minutes. Then finally, "Yeah. Let's call it in." He jerked his chin at the dead man's limp body. "Maybe this guy'll give 'em a decent enough reason for us to do some scouting of our own."

"Or maybe they'll bury him and tell us to shut up." countered Dom.

Marcus scowled. "We'll see."

* * *

**24 hours later**

**Command Headquarters**

**Orsorum (Orsa) Island**

The woman nodded in acknowledgement as her superior handed her some papers. _Marcus isn't going to like this_, she thought, troubled. In fact, she didn't know if she approved of it either. It was one thing to sacrifice their stronghold, Jacinto, in order to flood the hollow and Nexus. It was one thing to bring their own and a few survivors to Orsa without much explanation, to provide them with temporary sanctuary, even if for a brief time. But it was another to blatantly disregard the truth – obvious as it was – and keep it hidden from people who deserved to know.

She had tried ever so hard to place herself in their shoes. To send a large rescue mission over to the mainland, ignorant of the precise location and number of survivors, would prove to be a very foolish deed. They would place Orsa at risk, and would pay a bitter price to those who strove to keep it a hidden sanctuary. But no one had even suggested that a large team should be assembled. In fact, only two COG soldiers – namely, Marcus Fenix and Dominic Santiago – had volunteered for this reconnaissance mission. And in her eyes, it seemed a modest and logical offer. If they weren't going for the purpose of rescuing survivors, at least they could gather information as to how successful their attempt at flooding the Locust hollow had been.

It seemed rational enough. They were cut off from the outside world, and given their situation, perhaps a scouting mission would shed some light on circumstances – be they grave or hopeful. It seemed foolish to place blinders on now. In fact, it seemed_ so_ foolish that there was something not quite right about Prescott's decision and his adamant refusal. If she had given more thought to the matter, perhaps she would have concluded that a piece to this puzzle was missing, but her time was strained - not to mention her nerves. _No_, she surmised,_ he was simply being hard-headed and near-sighted_.

And that, she realized, is why she and Prescott never saw eye to eye. A politician and a soldier could never occupy the same room for a good length of time without coming to blows.

Figuratively, at least.

She walked with determined strides out of headquarters and into the live-in bunkers. Most COGs spent their off-duty moments socializing with one another in the grey rooms; playing cards, reading, gambling, doing whatever they could to occupy their minds and readjust to their new surroundings.

Here, she felt a little more as if she belonged. The camaraderie that blossomed between these men and few women were not constructed from favours, bribes or status. In short, the absence of politics was refreshing and welcome. Everyone here had – at one time or another – felt the burning pain of loss, and maybe, she thought, that was what cemented their bonds.

"Anya!" called out a familiar voice from the side.

She turned to see Marcus approach her, but couldn't tell if he was concerned or just tired. Hard to read as always, she mused.

"What did he say?" he asked, coming to her side.

She shook her head, no.

"You're kidding right?" he exclaimed, incredulous.

"I'm afraid not. He says it's too much of a risk. If one of you _are_ caught, it would compromise our location." And on seeing Marcus' frown deepen, she continued, "His words, Marcus. Not mine."

"Does Prescott honestly believe we're gonna tell the Locusts about Orsa if we're caught?"

Anya gave him consoling smile. "I don't know what he thinks. He just doesn't want to take the risk at this time. I understand how you feel, but right now – he can't be budged."

"Anya, there's a chance we didn't kill the Queen. A good chance." he emphasized. "We have to find out what happened. I'm telling you, if his plan is to wait for the Queen to die of old age, then we're finished."

She looked down at her boots and then up again. "There's nothing more I can do. I'm sorry."

Marcus sighed. "Not your fault. But hell, I thought he might come around. Had to give it a shot anyway." His shoulders seem to droop.

Anya studied the disappointment in his demeanor – subtle as it was. "There is one thing though," she pulled Marcus off to a side, and then dropped her voice lower. "The guy who you and Dom brought in? He wasn't empty-handed when he died."

Marcus looked at her with a mixture of gravity and curiousity.

She continued. "I got to take a look at the body before the medical examiner got there. It won't be recorded in the deceased's inventory, so no one will know it's missing. He had this hidden inside his boots. It was strapped to his leg." She pulled a small object out of her coat and handed it to him.

Upon closer inspection, Marcus saw that it was a small recorder, enclosed within a tightly sealed, transparent plastic bag. "What's on it?" he asked, looking up.

Anya frowned. "I didn't have time to listen to the entire thing. But I think it's important that you do. It's about your father, Marcus. It's about Adam Fenix."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:**

This chapter took a longer time to write than I thought it would. There were a lot of new ideas that crept up, and I felt guilty withholding them, so I had to find ways to incorporate everything somewhat logically into this chapter. Anyways, thanks for all the reviews so far. Katimnai, thanks for pointing out those errors - it often happens where I'm thinking one thing and then end up writing down another. Without those critiques, I couldn't hope to get any better at this. The_soup_fiend and The Wolvgambit, thanks for following it. As long as you guys enjoy the ride, that's all I can ask.

On a side note, I don't know much about Seran culture, and I don't know how similar it is to our own. I've inserted some Hebrew and Latin references in this chapter, to which some of the characters allude to. I know that even though Serans seem to speak English, the language on their world may have not risen from any Latin roots, and that there probably never were Jewish people in or around Sera either. I just hope that you can bear with these references for the time being, or if it seems too bothersome and out-of-place, PM me with any alternative suggestions.

Anyways, on with the story.

* * *

**7 hours later**

It turned out that Anya was wrong about a lot of things on the tape; specifically that its contents dealt primarily with his father. It wasn't Adam Fenix's voice and he concluded that the voice wasn't obscure enough for him to mistakenly indentify it. The individual in question wasn't dictating or narrating texts either. It seemed to be more of a journal, containing would-be plans – plans that appeared to have occurred at the New Hope Research Facility. Marcus did not subscribe to coincidences, although this would be a great time to start, he realized. But, much to his distaste and discomfiture, he couldn't convince himself that a fluke was all it was. He couldn't be _that_ lucky.

There were segments of the tape reel that were tarnished by unidentified environmental factors, and the voice often came out garbled and distorted. But fortunately, this did not extend to much of the recording – allowing for most of it to be heard and understood. Portions of it were unclear – not in the sense of lucidity – but more in the sense of relevance. There were random references to subjects, and he guessed that these were medical patients. His father's name was mentioned once or twice throughout the tape, and then never again. The voice had spoken of one patient, named Ruth, quite often and mid-way through the recording, she too seemed to have been omitted. During the remainder of the tape's entirety, the individual spoke a lot about his son – with the lack of a name – and another supposed friend, Micus. _Was it a play on Marcus_, he wondered? But no, this son seemed nothing like him in any way. And the voice on the tape – even if it was deliberately distorted – lacked his father's character, and his cold heart.

He lay back down on his cot, stared up at the mottled-gray ceiling and hit the play button, hearing the words that had now become familiar to him. It picked up where it had left off.

"_I told Ruth today_," it began. The calm voice seemed out of place here – as if it was putting up some kind of front. Perhaps this individual did not want to be overheard, surmised Marcus.

He listened on. "_She seemed disturbed and upset. I thought that perhaps she would be happy or more hopeful even. But Ruth was always unpredictable – both in the things she did and her moods, too. She said – and I quote – 'that our salvation comes too late,' but I'm chalking this kind of talk up to her medications. Speaking of which, Dr. Doom has upped the dosage_." Marcus paused the tape. Who was Dr. Doom? His name was brought up in almost every entry. Was it one of the doctors heavily involved in the research at the facility? Was it Niles Samson?

"Listening to your voices again?" came a voice from the doorway, slightly startling him.

Marcus propped himself up in his cot, acknowledging his friend. "Dom, sit down – you gotta listen to this. My brain's been spinning round too much. Maybe you can make some sense out of this shit."

Dom yawned and stretched. "Man, only thing I can make sense about right now is sleep. You could use some too." He sat down on the edge of his own bed and began to remove his boots.

"Can't sleep." muttered Marcus.

"I thought you said your dad wasn't on the tape,"

"He isn't, but he is."

Dom looked at him quizzically.

"This guy mentions him a couple times and then doesn't speak about him again. And then he rambles on about his son and this other guy, Micus. And how they're trying to get Micus out without having some Dr. Doom and his cronies find out." Marcus shook his head, realizing how ridiculous it all sounded.

Dom smiled. "Are you sure you're not listening to a B movie plot?"

Marcus looked back at him, his face deadpan.

"Hey," chuckled Dom, "I'm just trying to make sense of it too, you know? Maybe though," he nodded towards the small tape recorded, "Maybe this guy was a patient at New Hope. Maybe he was having some therapy sessions that made him keep some kind of audio journal."

Marcus shook his head. "He's not a patient. This guy probably worked there – he knows too much about the medication, the treatment rooms...shit like that."

Dom gazed at his friend, realizing that it was indeed troubling him. And for something to have the power to plague Marcus so was probably something worth taking a second look at. "Alright, man." He leaned back in his cot and sighed. "I've always wanted someone to read to me before bed anyways."

* * *

"_I'm glad I came to my son for advice. There is some kind of quiet resilience in him, a quiet strength, if you will. He says he's shipping out in less than two weeks now, but I need him here. I need him to help me plan. His idea of administering the benzodiazepines was a good one. They're mixed in with whatever Doom has been giving Micus, and they won't stand out. At least not yet. I had suggested some barbiturates, but this stuff is much better. At least it will slow down Micus' and Agna's heart rate and pulse enough for us to pull us through the first phase._

_But we have a surveillance problem. Just like my son had predicted, Micus and Agna are being watched over – not for security purposes, but for any symptoms. Doom's henchmen have more or less given up hope on the others. Whatever decency Doom has left in him has made him at least make them comfortable – during their remaining days anyway. My son was right. There is no hope for them now._"

Marcus paused the tape, skipping a part of the dialog he deemed unnecessary. The voice was talking about something unrelated to his musings earlier. In fact, it was so random that Marcus concluded that its arbitrary nature was deliberate, meant to throw anyone who found the tape and who listened to it, off the trail. He hit _play_ again, and closed his eyes.

"_My son says it's wise to make this recording, although I don't see how. I can't and I won't put all my emotions out here on this reel, but I still worry a hell of a lot, knowing that our plans and actions have now been recorded – and that there's hard evidence of our scheming! I mean, if anyone here were to find this tape, then we've had it. And we'd probably seal Micus' fate, and Agna's too. It would be tremendously easy to link everything in here to them, and we would have no alibis or false motives to fall back onto. But my son says it's not so much for peace of mind, but more as a failsafe. Not a very practical one, but something for the future, I think. In case we fail, maybe? Who knows what goes through the mind of the good doctor?_

_I wonder if he's going to turn traitor. And maybe all this is a set-up. But my instinct says no, and frankly, I have a lot more to worry about. It probably can only get worse from here on._

_Today we had a pretty heated argument. I said a lot of things I didn't mean. And I think he understood that, but he was sticking to his guns. I'm convinced there's another way to help them, but I can't find it. And my son pointed that out to me more than once. One of them has to be sacrificed so that the other can live. I didn't want to accept it, but the more I look at it, the more I find it to be true. Doom and the others aren't going to let us walk out with fake cadavers. They'll want to do tests, and then more tests. And by then, the "dead" will walk again, and the jig will be up. But if we use one...if we use one of them for the real thing, then believing that the other has also expired won't be so difficult._

_But the question is, which one do we pick?_"

Marcus stopped the tape here, and opened his eyes. He glanced over at Dom's bunk. His friend was fast asleep, with his snores to prove it. Marcus stared enviously at him and then lay back down again.

He listened on.

* * *

**The following morning**

**Orsa Island**

**COG soldiers' eating quarters**

"You look like hell." spoke the blond man, in between mouthfuls of food. "They ask you to do more recon last night?"

Marcus shook his head. Dom, who in contrast to his friend, had had a considerable amount of sleep the night before spoke instead. "No. He just got caught up in a bedtime story."

The blond raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He channeled his momentary interest to looking about the cafeteria; peering above the rows of heads. "They had spaghetti on the menu today," he mumbled to no one in particular. Then he turned his attention back to his companions sitting opposite him. "You seen Cole around?"

"Yeah," nodded Dom. "Had to train some of the rooks. Said he wouldn't be done till late afternoon. They have spaghetti, you said?" His friend nodded. "Man, I gotta get myself some of that. Haven't had spaghetti in ages." Dom rose from his seat, made his way amidst the other Gears sitting down to breakfast, and towards the serving section.

"So, how's he holding up?" asked the blond, nodding in Dom's general direction.

Marcus shrugged, poking around his food with his fork. "Alright, I guess."

"You think he got some closure? With finding Maria, I mean,"

"Baird, I'm just his friend. Not his shrink. If he wants to tell me something, he will." Marcus stared at his food, his appetite withdrawn. Truth be told, he had believed that a kind of peace had settled within Dom, and perhaps he had finally found a way to close the book on his search for his wife. It was all too obvious that he missed her tremendously, and that it pained him to speak about her, but perhaps he had found some type of solace with the knowledge that she was in a better place now. But it was really not his place to voice his opinion, and discourse that dealt with emotions was never his forte, anyway.

"Fair enough. So. You haven't told me about the bedtime stories you've been listening to,"

"Nothing that would thrill you," spoke Marcus.

"Try me." he responded.

Marcus put his fork down. "Look, it's not that I don't wanna _share_ or anything," his voice almost sounded sarcastic. "It's just that Dom thinks that it's a waste of time, and there are moments when I think it is, too."

Baird seemed impatient now. He furrowed his brow, a little unconvinced. "_What is it?_"

"Ah hell," muttered Marcus, too tired to put up an argument. "It's just a recording from some nut job who worked at New Hope."

At the mention of the facility, Baird's eyes lit up, his curiousity piqued. "How'd you get your hands on that? Did Hoffman pull it up?"

Marcus looked back at him, his face expressionless. "Yeah. Because I'm Hoffman's go-to guy when it comes to that kind of intel. Of course he didn't _give_ it to me, dumbass."

"Then what? Did you sneak it out?"

"Anya gave it to him," spoke Dom, from behind Marcus. His tray was occupied by a single plate, into which was piled on a heaping of spaghetti. He sat down beside Marcus, and in doing so, was careful not to drop his meal.

"Thanks Dom." said Marcus, with a considerable degree of acrimony.

Dom shrugged. "Well, it's true. She got it off that dead guy who washed up yesterday."

"And Hoffman and Prescott don't know about it?" asked Baird loudly, and in mild bewilderment.

"Say it to the whole world, why don't you." growled Marcus.

Baird winced and lowered his voice. "Sorry. But why the hell didn't you tell me earlier? You think I was gonna blab?"

Dom chewed his food and smiled with a mouthful of spaghetti. Marcus just frowned. "No, I just don't want to make a big deal out of it. It could be nothing. If the brass found it, they'd have stamped it as classified and we probably never would have heard of it again."

"True," agreed Baird. "But you should've told me,"

At this, Dom gave out a small chuckle. "Why? Did he hurt your feelings, Baird?"

"It's not that," said Baird, annoyed. "I got some of the stuff you brought back from the facility, and a couple things from when we were in Nexus. I'm trying to fit some of it together, you know what I mean?"

"I don't believe this. _You got a scrapbook?_" exclaimed Marcus.

Dom nearly choked on his spaghetti. "Are you shittin' me, Baird? You have Locust memorabilia?"

Baird rolled his eyes and rubbed his forehead, exasperated. "Never mind. Let's forget it."

"No, let's not." began Marcus. Eccentric as Baird could be, he suddenly realized the importance of these macabre mementos. "What have you got?"

"Look, it's not really a scrapbook, okay?"

"Whatever you say, Baird. Just tell us what you have."

"Well, it's not so much as what I've collected. It's more to do with what I wrote down in my journal – about the Locusts, I mean."

"_Oh, I don't believe this_..._most people write to their families_..." mumbled Dom. Marcus gestured for him to be quiet.

Baird shot Dom a look before continuing. "I noticed a little thing or two about their religion. Did you know they worship worms? I mean, hell. If they beat us, then we deserve to be extinct, and even if – "

"_Baird_." Marcus interrupted. "Cut out the commentary. What did you find out about the facility?"

"I have some old medical files. Totally unorganized – lots of gaps in documentation. Let's see...I think I have some memos from a lead researcher – that Niles guy – to his staff. Things like that."

"Hoffman know you have them?" asked Dom.

"Nope," said Baird, quite proudly. "And he probably wouldn't want 'em either. Prescott would chew his ass out if he knew. The thing is, a lot of the stuff I have, it's all in bits and pieces. It makes sense, but then again, it doesn't."

"Almost like pieces to a puzzle," said Marcus.

"Exactly." responded Baird. "Which is why your little recording there makes me curious. Maybe it has some info that'll make what I have sound sensible. Do you know who made it? Was it that dead guy?"

Marcus shook his head. "Nah. The tape's old. A good twenty years or so. Our corpse was probably younger than that – and he may have also been a stranded."

Baird looked away, pensive, and then back again at his companion. "Look. Let me borrow the tape. I might be able to give it a listen and help us both out."

"For all the good that it'll do," groused Marcus, as he finally dug into his cold meal.

* * *

**Command Headquarters**

The data that flashed down the screen flew by so swiftly that to her, it was a blur. When she grew tired, and her eyes became unfocused, she imagined arbitrary images. Although pointless and often mind-numbing, it was in its own way a form of solace and distraction. The computer program before her was instructed to pick up key words from this disconcertingly large database, saving her the trouble of thousands of hours of manual labour. She selected the "time expired-time remaining" window on her screen, and groaned inwardly. It still had five more hours to go.

_Should have brought a book_, she thought.

Truth be told, just like the other Gears stationed on Orsa, she had found it too difficult to resign herself to this kind of peace. _Or boredom, more likely_, she mused to herself. Part of her felt as if she should be more appreciative of this calm while the other half struggled to contain feelings of dread. She was always the one to yank the band-aid off quickly, rather that pull it off in that painfully slow manner. If there was anything to fear, she'd rather face it sooner than later. And if the Queen had survived, just as Marcus believed, then there was no doubt that she would be more incensed than ever. She would re-double her efforts to exact her revenge, and then heaven help those who stood in her way.

Anya shuddered. Marcus' descriptions of the Queen had alarmed her more than the grainy images that JACK had recorded. She was surprisingly comely, and Anya was certain at some point in her life, she must have been beautiful. But then Marcus had described the protrusions that seem to have emerged from her back. They were quite animated, and seemed to waver according to the Queen's emotions. The insect-like appendages coupled to human form seemed foreign and even more alien than the Locust. Perhaps because it mixed the familiar with the unfamiliar, realized Anya. While the Locusts' textures and features were altogether different from those of humans, the Queen, this stately individual, seemed testament to something terrifying. Almost as if she was the embodiment of macabre deeds that only the human mind could conceive.

Anya let out a breath and stood up. It did her no good to ponder on something that only made her more fearful. She walked to a nearby bookshelf, and browsed through the small collection, gazing at the titles engraved on the books' spines. A lot of them seemed dusty and untouched. She pulled out one for observation, and in doing so disturbed tiny particles of debris that wafted up into the air. The book itself smelled musty too.

"Catching up on some light reading, lieutenant?"

Anya started, nearly dropping the book. She looked back up into the stern face that was Colonel Hoffman. "Sorry sir, I was just biding some time before the data compilation came through."

Hoffman walked over to the computer she was at earlier, and folded his arms across his chest. "How much longer?" he asked.

"Last I checked – five hours."

Hoffman gave off a small whistle. "Thought we were technologically advanced,"

Anya smiled. "We are. It's just that we're sifting through a staggering amount of information. The Chairman asked me to go back some thirty years. I have to go through all sorts of reports, whether they're credible or not."

"I understand, Stroud. The stuff that Delta found was news to me too. I'm even surprised that – "

" – I'm not gathering information on New Hope, sir. I'm trying to get some data on imulsion research. Post-Helen Cooper's refinement discovery. It's what I was instructed to do." explained Anya. She was surprised that the colonel wasn't privy to such intelligence, but she didn't show it.

Hoffman scowled and scratched his chin. "Imulsion research?" he asked again. Anya nodded. "What the hell does he think we're gonna get with imulsion research at this time?"

"I'm not entirely aware, sir. I'm guessing it might have something to do with the rust-lung illnesses people developed after the lightmass bombing. The Chairman also asked me to give him an up-to-date list of anyone documented to have its symptoms."

Hoffman stared at the busy computer screen for several moments, as if he was pondering something. Finally, after an uncomfortable silence, he spoke. "Lieutenant, I'm going to ask you something that has gotta stay _one-hundred percent_ off the record. And I want an honest answer, you hear me?" said Hoffman, his scowl still plastered to his weathered face.

Anya nodded slowly, not entirely sure whether she liked where this was going.

"Did Prescott ask you to keep this information from me?"

She paused. "No, sir. I was under the impression that you already knew. To the best of my knowledge – "

" – How'd you like that." grumbled Hoffman, unaware that he had cut her off. "He has the balls to tell me one thing and do another,"

Putting two and two together, Anya finally recognized her advantage. Prescott was proud of his Gears – there was no doubt there. But it was Hoffman who was more their patriarch; after all, he had endured scores of battles amidst them, whereas Prescott had served a short while and even then, solely for the benefit of his PR campaign. Hoffman had earned the respect of most Gears that he had worked with, while Prescott merely demanded it. If there was one person she wanted on her side during this war, it was Hoffman."With all due respect to his abilities and experience, Colonel, he _is _a politician." spoke Anya. "Was there ever a time when the COG's right arm knew what the left was doing?"

Hoffman let out a dry laugh. "No...no, I guess not. He told me he had asked you to put together the data that Delta had gathered from that dump of a facility. You know, where they found those...those giant wretches."

"The _Sires_," corrected Anya.

"Yeah. Those things." He put his hands on his hips. "Now if you were working on a report on them, I can understand. But this just seems like he's putting you on some wild goose chase."

Anya's brow furrowed. "Beg your pardon, sir, but what can't you understand?"

"He wanted you off of dispatch duty, so you could work on this little project. I didn't want to let you go – the men seem to trust you – and like it or not, you're a whiz at interpreting maps. A handy asset to have around. But he convinced me that your mind was worth more working elsewhere. I believed him." He gently massaged the bridge of his nose, the surprise still lingering. "_Son of a bitch_,"

"What is it Colonel?"

"It looks like the right arm _still_ doesn't know what the left is doing." He rolled up his sleeves and stared at her, determination in his eyes. "Well, looks like we'll have to change that now, won't we?"

* * *

**2 hours later**

Anya stared at her superior in genuine surprise. What he had just told her made sense, and she silently chided herself for not anticipating it earlier. If she had known, at least she could have put both her mind and Marcus' at ease. But hindsight was irritatingly twenty-twenty, and she felt a fool for doubting Hoffman, and Prescott, even. Not that she didn't feel chafed at the Chairman's mistrust towards her, but she was always silently proud of her strength of discernment – a valuable trait passed down to her from her mother. It bruised her ego, to say the very least.

The revelation that the COG had maintained a small military base on the mainland had also left her with an overcoming feeling of relief. She felt as if she could breathe again – that while they had one eye focused on developments at Orsa, they also had another to watch out for anything that threatened them. So it wasn't as bad as she had formerly believed, and maybe their military had more foresight than she had given them credit for.

She took a deep breath after Hoffman had concluded and shook her head in disbelief. "How long ago did we put people there?" she asked again, still trying to piece together the news.

"Ever since we sunk Jacinto. We had an outpost on Elingrad's outskirts – derelict and abandoned. But the emergency bunkers and even some of the equipment was serviceable. Well, we took what we could get and got it working." explained Hoffman, his voice a little hoarse now from all the talking.

Arms folded across her chest, Anya leaned forward in her seat. "You could have told me,"

Hoffman frowned. "I thought Prescott would. But it all makes sense now, doesn't it?"

She nodded, forlornly. The Chairman had taken her off dispatch duty for fear that she would find out about this small outpost. And recognizing her ties and commitment to the soldiers out in the fray, he was afraid that she would inform them as well – in some misguided attempt of conscience. She wouldn't have, of course, especially if she was instructed not to. But he had not even given her the chance to prove her loyalty, and she felt frustrated, and a little betrayed.

Of course she was able enough to comprehend that this piece of news was not something to broadcast. People, be they Gears, stranded or survivors, could and would have flocked to the location of the base for whatever reason, and easily have given up its position. This in turn would have led the Locusts to Orsa, and the remaining fragments of humanity the COG had tried to preserve could have been destroyed.

"So you see," said Hoffman, bringing her out of her contemplations, "that's why we needed to keep it quiet. I was against him keeping it from some of our people – like yourself, lieutenant. But it was just one of those times where I told myself; _he's the chairman, and you're the colonel. And there are reasons for these distinctions_. But I figured he'd tell you eventually. So you can understand my anger when I found out that he's been lying to you, sending you on projects just to waste your time – makes me wonder where his interests lie."

Anya bit her lip. "He _does_ care about the Gears," she said, surprised that she was coming to his defense. "I would hate to think he wanted to place us in harm's way."

"No, of course he doesn't want to do that," exclaimed Hoffman loudly. "But I'm no psychologist, Stroud. And frankly, I don't really care about his motives and his interests. All I know is that he's tried my patience one too many times, and I'm just about done with all this secretive planning. I want things like this out in the open; where they belong. That's why I told you about the signal from the outpost, Stroud. Or the absence of it, rather."

She nodded and walked over to the communications console. The controls were so familiar to her that she instinctively reached out to turn a dial before she caught herself, and paused. She looked up at the colonel. "May I, sir?" she asked.

The older man gestured towards the panel, "By all means, Lieutenant. That's why I brought you down here, after all."

Following a few moments, she had adjusted the instruments to her liking. Earpiece and mouthpiece attached to the headset she was wearing, she spoke to her superior. "I'm getting a frequency," she began, "But there's no response. No emergency signals or anything. You sure this is the correct frequency?"

"As sure as my name's Hoffman." he replied, in his usual blunt manner.

"And how often do you have them report in?"

"Every three days. It's been four, counting today."

She spoke into the mouthpiece. "Bluebird, this is Rogue. Come in Bluebird, over."

Nothing. She turned up the volume for Hoffman to hear. He scowled at the sound of the static.

"Ask them to switch to emergency protocols," instructed the colonel, referring to a series of beeps – not very different from Morse code – that damaged outposts could emit should their equipment fail to function properly.

"Bluebird, please activate your red signals, over." Anya paused, before repeating herself again. She looked up at Hoffman again. "Did the other dispatcher pick up any emergency signals?"

"Hell, no. Didn't know jack-shit about distinguishing a safe signal from an emergency one."

She removed the headset, and set it on the communications panel. "I'm sorry, Colonel, but we're not making much headway here."

"Tell me about it." Hoffman gritted his teeth. He walked towards a window, and then paced back towards her, his face grave and solemn. "This has happened once before. But it only lasted a couple hours – seems like they were having some technical problems. The Chairman – well, the Chairman thinks that's what happened again. He's not fretting like I am. But I feel different about this – like something bad churning in my gut. Always got that feeling just before E-holes sprang up." He rubbed at his eyes slowly, and then looked back at Anya, his brow furrowed with worry. "I don't like sitting around here, Stroud, doing nothing. Seems like we should be doing _something_. I have an idea, but...I don't know how much good it'll do. But before I say anything, do you have any suggestions as to what we could do next?"

It was always awkward to conceive of plans for people who had more experience than she had in her entire lifetime. On occasions, their requests seemed a little patronizing, and often it led to advice being given rather than taken. But this time, Hoffman's reliance on her seemed genuine, and because of the request's gravity, she gave her opinion a little grudgingly. "I would give it a lot of thought, sir. But, if it was up to me, I don't think I would waste much time in sending in a small team. And I wouldn't put any fresh Gears on it. I'd have three, four people at the most. Good, capable men – people you'd trust your life with."

Hoffman sighed. "A recon mission to the mainland isn't like a recon mission to the south beach, Stroud."

"I know, sir. Which is why you need some veterans on board. You don't need any edgy kids getting jittery and blowing things up. It's not an offensive mission, and it needs to be handled delicately."

Hoffman grinned slightly. "What you mean is, this is Delta squad's kind of thing,"

Anya smiled in response. "You said it, sir, not me."

* * *

The training compound saw little activity during this time of day, as the cool breeze wafted through the dense foliage. Newer recruits were trained during the afternoon – the time when the sun's rays emitted a scorching heat, testing their endurance and trying their stamina. Part of the small facility was located underground, where the signals of mechanized training equipment could be masked, and kept off the radar.

Marcus enjoyed breaking them out in the open – he felt as if it heightened their senses to be out in unfamiliar territory, and it also gave them an excuse to release a lot of pent up energy – a feeling he was all too accustomed to. And also, he had realized, he was grateful to be able to be outdoors, a place that never used to be free from danger – if only for a time.

He watched as the younger recruits walked back into the compound, a little worn out, but with playful camaraderie that he had experienced so many years ago. They had not seen very much of war, but Marcus was certain that they would get their chance in the near future. They ought to enjoy as much freedom as was permitted then, he realized, as he was disconcertingly sure that it wouldn't last.

He zipped his duffel bag shut, and strapped his unloaded lancer onto his back. He made as if to follow the younger men back into the compound, but an evening breeze brushed against his face gently, and he looked out into the setting sun. A slight walk could do no harm, he recognized. Hell, it might be one of the last few he'd ever take.

"Marcus!" he heard a voice call over to him, as he was just about to begin his small trek.

He turned to see Baird jogging towards him, with something in his hand.

"Marcus, I got it all figured out," he panted, as he bent over and grasped his knees to catch his breath. "Ran all the way from the bunkers to tell you..._Man_, I'm outta shape..."

"That's a long ways," remarked Marcus. "What did you figure out?"

Baird pointed towards a small bench, still out of breath. The pair walked towards it and sat down.

"Okay, I don't think I figured it _all_ out – there's still a lot missing. But you gotta admit, we've come a long way from the bits and pieces –"

"Baird, just tell me what you found."

"You were wrong about a lot of things, man," grinned Baird. Marcus couldn't tell if he was just pleased about his discovery or that he had managed to decipher something that his ranked superior couldn't. "You said that this guy doesn't talk about your dad, right? Wrong. Your dad was in deep with whatever they were trying to pull off."

"What do you mean?" asked Marcus. "This guy talks about my father and then decides to confide in his son. It was the both of them that – "

"No," interrupted Baird. He gesticulated with his hands. "His son was your father." And then on seeing Marcus' perplexed face, "Not in the literal sense of the word. He meant _sun_, not _son_. Because sun, when translated from its Latin variant into its English equivalent means phoenix. And in this case, it's obvious that he's not referring to the mythical bird, but to _Fenix_. Your dad's last name. Very clever, really. Took me a while to figure out. I'd never have figured it out if not for the same thing he did with the other person on the tape."

"Who?"

"Ruth. My granddad was a professor of ancient languages. He used to tell us about the hidden meanings of words, their derivations, you know – that sort of thing. Some of it was pretty obscene, but anyway – "

"Baird," said Marcus, at the edge of his patience.

"Okay, okay. Well in ancient Hebrew texts, Ruth means companion. And if you translate _companion_ into Latin, you get _Amicus_." explained Baird.

"_I'll be damned. Micus_."

"Exactly. Same for the other person on your tape. Agna means sheep or ewe in Latin, and if we translate this Latin variant into its Hebrew counterpart, you get Rachel. So now, we have two very real names. Ruth and Rachel. And this guy and your dad, they were dead set on getting them out of the facility."

"Any clue as to what the hell was going on there?"

"Well, I think it's safe to say that there was a fair share of experimentation taking place. And it looks like your Ruth and Rachel were subjects." Baird derived. "I even have a small excerpt from a medical file you and Dom brought back. Here, look," Baird handed Marcus a piece of paper, yellowed at the edges and a little fragile.

Marcus held it gingerly between his fingers and read the printed words.

_Patient Name: Ruth  
Age: 15 _

_Symptom: Ruth is clearly experiencing extreme swelling in her joints and frequently cries out in pain during the night. She also exhibits rather erratic and unpredictable behavior, though this is quite understandable considering her situation and symptoms. There is a strange discoloration in her eyes, and her breathing often sounds labored. Her nails grow at a faster rate than normal, though her hair grows at a markedly reduced rate. I'll keep trying to find some type of medication to alleviate her pain without adversely affecting our studies. _

_  
Dr. Niles Samson_

After a few minutes of digesting the material, Marcus handed the paper back to Baird. The progress his friend had made was all well and good. However, it left him with more questions than answers. Why was more attention given to her rather than the other patients at New Hope? Did she exhibit positive symptoms? Were her doctors pleased at the manner in which she responded to their probes and trials?

Almost as if Baird had read his mind, he spoke. "They singled out Ruth, there's no question about it. But I have a hunch that your dad and his mystery friend were trying to get her and the other girl, Rachel, out. But it must've come down to something bad, because they had to pick who they wanted to save. That's why our friend was talking about sacrifice. They must've chosen Ruth."

"Save her from _what_, Baird? The research? And what does the research have to do with the Sires Dom and I sliced up?" asked Marcus.

"Apparently not something good," deduced Baird, stating the obvious. "Too bad Hoffman didn't let you off of Orsa. You could've got more answers if you went back home. Or back to the facility, at least."

Marcus glowered, unhappy with this outcome. "Yeah. Too bad."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note (07/11/09): **

_Ohmanohmanohman_...this chapter nearly killed me. Not because it was hard to write or because I lacked ideas. It was just the opposite. They just totally flooded and warped my brain. I enjoyed writing it, but my damn neck hurts. So does my wrist, my back...ungh.

And I also didn't see a little spin on my plot coming. This may have to be upped to an M rating later on - as I might add some thematic elements reminiscent of some cult classics like Alien and Event Horizon into it. Which are, obviously, pretty graphic. But this is a _maybe_, so who knows. I certainly don't. I just wanted to warn you poor souls that tolerate reading my drivel. And if you're as sadistic as I am, then maybe...just maybe, you'll enjoy it.

And yes, I'm aware that this chapter needs a _ton_ of editing, but please...can I get to it later?

Thank you for the reviews so far. Oh yeah, and someone recently asked me about my review policy. If you want me to review, send me a message. I may not do so straight away but I will get to it.

Over and out.

**Author's note (07/12/09):**

Okay, so I've worked a little on gaps I needed to fill - one being the bridge between how Delta gets from Orsa to the mainland. I had previously made the transition too fast, and a lot of it didn't make much sense as I read on. I mean, how the hell could Delta use a jet and land without causing a ruckus? I had conveniently overlooked this, which was shabby of me, so I apologize and make amends by adding in a brief, extra scene. The other things I fixed are some grammatical errors and phrases that seemed off to me.

Again, thanks so much to Katimnai, Mito Lou, The WolvGambit, JohnnyHellion, Damon..x. for your reviews and critiques (if I've ommitted anyone else - I'm very grateful to you too, and I'm very sorry for the omission, but I should let you know that my brain powers have expired some years ago). As for this story, sometimes I don't see what appeals to people - but I love writing, and it gives me thrills to know you guys enjoy reading it. And that's good enough for me.

* * *

**Orsa Island**

**Command Barracks**

**The following day**

"This is mutiny. It's _mutiny_ – is what it is." The Chairman fixed his gaze on the older man, his brows lowered and his eyes glowering. Uncharacteristic of his anger, his voice remained under control and he held his arms behind him, but judging from the rising colour in his cheeks, he seemed on the brink of succumbing to wild gesticulating. "Everything I've ever done, Colonel, I've done with the best interest of our people in mind. For you to go behind my back, shirk your responsibilities – it's insulting. It means you're questioning my intentions _and_ my loyalty."

Colonel Hoffman didn't respond. He stood but a few feet away, arms folded against his chest. His temperament was veiled at the moment, which was, in turn, unusual for _his_ nature. There was a time when he had held the Chairman in high regard. Prescott's service to the COG was limited to a period of eighteen months; and whatever combat he was immersed in was minimal, to say the least. But Prescott did not feign an attraction for the military. He was candid when it came to admitting that his strengths lay in the political arena, and for his truthfulness he had managed to garner some degree of respect. After all, he was a capable bureaucrat, and heaven knows, those were hard to find. Hoffman felt that the Council of Sovereigns – the legislative board that elected members of the Seran government – did well by its people by nominating Prescott to replace Chairman Dalyell. Following his positive referendum and election, Prescott had worked tirelessly to secure some measure of stability within the COG nations. He could not be bought or bribed, and what few people sought to tarnish his reputation with blackmail often found that the roots of these rumours were fruitless and could never be substantiated.

These virtues strengthened Hoffman's perception of Prescott's integrity, and he had never questioned his superior's orders before. _Until now, that is_, thought Hoffman. Now seeds of doubt were beginning to sprout in his mind, and the Chairman's deceit towards him _and_ to his Gears were beginning to chip away at his trust.

"We're not questioning your allegiance, Mr. Chairman," came out Anya's voice. She was standing behind Hoffman, watching the scene unfold before her nervously. "We just think you've made some bad decisions."

Almost immediately, Anya winced and wished that she could bite back her words. If they were here to win the Chairman's vote, or have his blessing, or whatever the hell it was – they were certainly not making much progress. And her remarks hadn't helped either.

Prescott turned his head to her, mockingly curious. He looked back at Hoffman, offended and upset. "Oh, and now you have a spokesman in the Lieutenant, I see? Have you abolished all manner of rank while I was having my breakfast too? Elected a new chairman? If so, might I suggest the mess boy?"

Hoffman shot Anya an irritated look before addressing Prescott. "Chairman, the Lieutenant here just got a little carried away. I'm sorry. Why don't you have a seat," he suggested, gesturing towards an arm chair behind a desk.

"I will not be told when to sit down in my own office, thank you. I'm not senile and I'm quite capable of handling anything you tell me." Prescott moved a step closer to Hoffman. He was a good head shorter than the Colonel, but stature did not overshadow rank, and he was clearly prepared to demonstrate his convictions.

"Then Chairman," began Hoffman taking in a heavy breath, "with all due respect, I think you're making some pretty bad calls here. Your decisions – calculable as they are – are gonna put Orsa, and everyone here, at risk. Now I know it's difficult to hear bad news – " At this, the Chairman scoffed, but Hoffman ignored the response and continued, " – but it has been more than twenty-four hours since we've heard from them. They're not on any alternative frequencies, there are no red signals, there's _nothing_, Chairman."

"You said this before, Hoffman. And it's happened before." stated the Chairman.

"That was only for a few hours! They initiated contact _within_ that span of time!"

"Which they will do again, Colonel!" shot back Prescott.

Hoffman narrowed his eyes. "I don't think they will. And it would be wise of you to consider some other options. _Sir_."

Prescott closed his eyes and shook his head. He looked tired. All the while Hoffman had been bracing himself for an explosion of emotion from his superior; evidence of this came from Prescott's slackening control of his temper. But instead, the Chairman had suddenly grown weary...and within the passing of a few minutes he seemed almost _old_. The man's long face seemed lined, the underneath of his eyes – darkened with the loss of sleep and the gain of worry. He walked towards the center of the room, and towards a medium-sized table. Its surface displayed a lighted map; with various routes – past and present – tracked out. He lightly traced a meandering path with the tip of his finger.

"Sir," spoke the Colonel, using the silence to his advantage, "I believe in the greater good. Sounds like horseshit, but it's what I believe in anyway. And I understand that the loss of a few is worth the survival of many. I've had to make that call many times, Chairman. Never gets any less painful the more you have to do it, but you do what you have to. You roll with the punches and you don't try to analyze it, and you don't try to make sense of it. But somewhere along the way, you learn – your gut picks up signals – that sometimes it smells wrong. The trick is, when you get a whiff of bad, you have to know when to act and when to let it alone."

Prescott looked over to the burly man. "And you smell something bad, of course."

"It positively reeks, Mr. Chairman."

"If I send a scouting party to the mainland, the Locust are going to pick them up. They are going to capture them, torture them, and after extracting what information they can from our men, they will then come for us."

"My Gears would never give us up." stated Hoffman.

"People can be broken, Colonel. Being a Gear isn't an exception to the rule, it merely delays the inevitable. I have women and children on this island, and I will not stand by watching them be massacred by those vermin."

"They wouldn't give us up." said Hoffman again.

Prescott left the table-map and walked over to his armchair. He sat down heavily, as if encumbered by an invisible burden. He leaned his head against the seat. "Whatever I've done, I've done it for us. For our survival. I'll lie, cheat and steal – anything short of murder – if it keeps us safe. I don't owe you or the Lieutenant an apology for lying. I did it so that it wouldn't endanger us. We've been blessed with Orsa. With everything our predecessors have built, the supplies, the arsenal, the drop-ships, _everything_. I want their efforts to be worth something, and I don't want to squander it away on the basis of impatience."

Hoffman wrung his hands together. He was no diplomat and he wasn't particularly verbose. When it came to voicing his opinion, he often told it like it was, and he spoke his mind. Conveying a message should be something less long-winded and more clear cut. It should be simple. Just as his instincts were. He knew his men on the mainland were in danger – and he fervently hoped that whatever ill had befallen them was over. But the situation morphed into something more ominous when he recognized that their link to the outside world had been severed, with the lack of an explanation. It could mean so many things. And in this instance, knowledge was power, and they needed to _know_. They needed to know what _had_ happened and what was _going_ to happen.

It was that simple.

"I don't nag, Chairman," spoke Hoffman softly. "I can't stand repeating myself. But for the sake of our men and the survivors here, I cannot emphasize how important it is to find our team and to understand why they cannot respond. If we didn't completely destroy Nexus then we're wasting precious time sitting here, waiting for the shit to hit the fan. If they're planning an attack, if they know where Orsa is, we need to be ready for them."

"And you don't think we are?" questioned Prescott.

Hoffman shook his head. "We underestimated the separatists during the Pendulum Wars. We underestimated the Locust on emergence day. We cannot withstand another attack just because we've become overconfident. You said you don't want to watch our people die? I have a sure feeling, Chairman, that that's what we're setting them up for if we don't maneuver ourselves defensively. And how can we defend our people if we don't know what we're going to be protecting ourselves from?"

Prescott rose from his seat and walked to Anya, who had remained silent during the entire deliberation. He looked at her and smiled, as if to say that whatever differences they had in the past were now forgotten. "Lieutenant, if you don't mind, the Colonel and I need to speak in private now." He opened the door to the room, and gestured out into the empty hallway, "Please." Anya gave one look back at Hoffman, who nodded at her, before walking out.

He shut the door and faced the Colonel once again, his face grim. "I can't shoulder this responsibility."

Hoffman studied the Chairman's face. "Which responsibility, Sir?"

Prescott swallowed. "I can't take the responsibility of bringing about a death sentence on the people I'm supposed to lead."

"You're not, Mr. Chairman. You're doing what you think is right. As am I. That's all they can ask of us, and that's all we have to give."

The younger man appeared genuinely disturbed. "We're gambling with a losing hand, Hoffman."

"At least we've got a hand, Sir. Could be much worse."

Prescott acquiesced, nodding. "Yes, it could. If you send...if you send your men down there, do they understand what lies ahead? Especially if they're caught? There will be no rescue mission. If we don't hear from them, they will be presumed dead and they will be left for dead. Are they aware of that?"

"Yes Sir, Mr. Chairman. They are aware." spoke Hoffman, his voice barely audible.

* * *

**Later that evening**

Anya paced the confined waiting area as best she could. Despite its contents – a worn couch, a dusty coffee table and two end tables which had long since lost their sheen – the distractions the room offered were not strong enough to quiet her apprehensions.

Hoffman's "consultations" with Chairman Prescott had won them some manner of support, that was true. And despite Marcus' expressionless demeanor, she knew that he was grateful, and even a little relieved, to discover that he was to get off Orsa. More than anything, it was plain that he needed answers to certain questions that he couldn't even hope to find on the island.

_And I should feel hopeful for him too_, she told herself. Except that she didn't. Right up to the moment where it was decided that Delta squad had been elected to carry out this hazardous mission, she was considerably mollified – on his behalf, of course. He seemed to have a purpose once again, now that the invisible barrier that had prevented him from seeking the truth had been removed.

But then, why did she feel so worried?

"Still here?" said Marcus as he stood in the doorway of Prescott's office.

She smiled wanly. "Sleep isn't really my thing anymore, you know how it is,"

"I sure do."

"So what did Prescott say?" she asked, unable to contain herself any longer.

"Prescott didn't say anything because he wasn't there," said Marcus, as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Hoffman was a one-man show."

Anya wrinkled her forehead, a little perplexed. "But I thought – "

" – looks to me like all he wanted to contribute was to remove his opposition. He doesn't want to take the fall for this." Marcus shook his head. "Looks like his PR campaign's doesn't expire until he does."

"He's not as bad as you think,"

"Yes he is," he countered.

Anya couldn't help but smile at his insistence. She knew that Marcus barely tolerated Hoffman outside of the military realm. And as for Prescott, well, he couldn't even look the man in the eye – which demonstrated the extent of his distaste for politicians. And that was certainly saying something. "Look, he's just not that bad, okay? I think we need to cut him a break."

"Why the defection?" asked Marcus, his turn to be curious.

"Let's just say that some of my..._perceptions_ of him have changed. Long story," she replied, a little reluctant to delve into details. "So what's the deal with Elingrad anyway?"

"This is gonna be more than just a recon mission. I mean, it's important enough as it is, but one of the stops on our destination is going to be New Hope and another sister facility,"

"Looks to me like Prescott's going to make a career out of declassifying info. You got lucky," grinned Anya, "You can fill in the gaps on the tape,"

"Well, uh...Prescott doesn't know." Anya raised her eyebrows, and he continued, "Look, Hoffman was decent enough to fight for this little excursion. He went up against the Chairman for us. I felt like I needed to level with him, so I told him about the tape and the other crap in Baird's journal." He saw her eyes widen slightly. "And don't worry, I didn't tell him you gave me the tape, I just said that I nicked it off that dead guy when we found him."

"How high did he soar on the rage-meter?"

"Not very high. I think he must've been sedated."

She chuckled before becoming serious again. "But what about Elingrad? Did he say how you guys are going to get there? I mean, you can't really rely on covertness when you're in a Raven. And where in Elingrad is the base? What're you going to do when you find the team?"

Marcus let out a small chuckle. "One shot at a time, kid. The briefing was...well, brief. He gave me some information to start out, and he said that the rest would follow when he deemed it appropriate. His words."

"Very poetic," she quipped. "I suppose it's the logical thing to do. You can't really give away info you're not aware of, now can you?"

"That is, assuming we're caught and tortured, of course. But let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"Yeah, let's hope so," her voice grew quiet and for the briefest of moments, it looked like she had to pull her gaze away from his face, as if she couldn't bear staring at him. But in a fraction of a second she was composed again, and to anyone who didn't truly know her, the action could have easily slipped by unnoticed.

But he had caught it. "You alright?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yeah."

Unsure of what to say next, he did what he thought was best. "I'm going to grab some shut-eye. You could use some too," He began to walk past her slowly, and towards the exit.

"_Marcus_," came out her voice. It was hard not to stop in his tracks; the voice carried an emotion he hadn't felt in years. "Marcus...just be careful out there, okay?"

"I always am." he paused, without turning around.

She heaved out a large breath. "Yes, I know. But this time – well, uh...it feels a little like Russian roulette. And I don't think we're the ones holding the pistol."

"Well then. I'll have to dodge some bullets, won't I?" he said, his voice lacking the conviction of his words, and walked out.

* * *

**Two days later**

The ride from the soldiers' quarters or the _grunts' hub_, as some of the Gears referred to it as, was a long one. He had not anticipated it to be so – seeing as how they could drive on its circuitous outskirts in no more than two hours. But it was painfully lengthy now, and what little chatter had initiated when they had started out had now dwindled into silence – save for the rattling of their equipment inside the jeep as it drove onwards.

_Perhaps silence lengthened time_, thought Dom, as he studied his companions. Baird and Marcus had fallen asleep; their heads often drifting slightly from side to side, before the intermittent jarring of their vehicle jerked them to a state of semi-wakefulness. But soon, with the passing of a few moments, sleep would steal over them again, and the little ritual would repeat itself. Cole had found the company of a small journal, and despite their bumpy ride, he seemed content to write his thoughts shakily on paper – glancing up every now and then to see how far they had driven.

Only he was left with nothing substantial to occupy himself, and it was these moments when she had chosen to slide back into memory.

Dom stared into nothing, his mind's eye focusing on her instead. He could see her in the kitchen now, searching for something in their pantry. Sylvia, their daughter, had spilled something on their living room rug – something Dom's mother had given to them. Maria had emptied out the contents of the cabinet, looking for the rug cleaner. She called out to Dom, it was one of those rare days when he had been allowed to visit them – if only for a brief time. _Where's the rug cleaner_, she had asked? Dom had entered, explaining that he didn't know where anything was in this house anymore, and had she seen his shaving cream? And then in came Benito, his eyes widened and his face a little red. He gave his father a sheepish glance, and slipped his hand into his mother's, tugging it gently. Maria had rolled her eyes – those big, beautiful brown eyes – and followed her son, expecting the worst. Benito had led them to the bathroom, where clouds of frothy water emerged from the toilet. On the bathroom counter stood the rug cleaner, and a tipped can of shaving cream.

Dom swallowed, and closed his eyes. The memories were painful, but it was all he had left. How could he let them go?

There were some he could do without. Yes, there certainly were. Her emaciated face, body, the crudely stitched up skin. The soulless eyes. _Oh God_. A sharp pain cut across his chest, and he grimaced, unable to sustain the emotion.

Almost immediately, Cole looked up from his journal, concerned. He had recognized the pain for what it was, and reached over from across his seat and placed a large hand on his friend's knee.

"Not worth thinking 'bout the bad ones, man. Remember them for who they really were. The other stuff? The other stuff is nothing compared to how they lived." said Cole.

Dom stared at his hefty companion, a little surprised. "How did you – "

" – I ain't no mind reader, baby. But I know that look." responded Cole, shaking his head. "Man, I _know_ that look."

Dom sat wordlessly for a few moments. "What do you when it gets a hold of you?" he asked, quietly.

"I write 'em letters." He held up his journal.

"But they're..._gone_,"

"Maybe they are, maybe they're not," shrugged Cole. "Now, me? I like to believe they're not. _Hell_, I know they're not. They're in here." He thumped his chest, the place closest to his heart, with his fist. "They know what I'm saying. They know what I'm feeling."

Dom felt a tightening in his chest and his throat. He looked away, watching the road fall back behind them as they drove. He felt his eyes burn, and quickly brushed away the oncoming tears.

He just wanted to hold her. That was all. He just wanted her back.

* * *

The black jeep came to a sudden stop, raising a cloud of dust at its rear as it did so. Ten or fifteen large brown tents were set up several yards away, and there was a bustle of activity as women and some families walked to and fro about their business. Some had grouped around together, chatting, while young children attended to their own games and goings-on. The others carried and stacked boxes atop one another, while the remainder opened up each crate examining its contents and sorted each item into its appropriate category.

A group of children had noticed the stopped vehicle and clustered around it, curious to see its occupants. A young boy, no more than ten, peered into the back of the jeep. Cole and Dom, followed by a sleepy-eyed Baird, emerged. The boy grinned at the trio and Cole returned the smile, ruffling the boy's brown hair as he walked by.

"Your friend isn't gonna get out?" asked the boy, nodding in the direction of Marcus, who remained inside the jeep, still asleep.

"Doesn't look like it," replied Dom.

"You guys thirsty?" the youngster asked, eager to be of assistance.

Baird shook his head. "Nah. We're just here to pick up some things. Won't be long."

The boy looked disappointed, and he turned as if to walk away.

"We could use some juice, though," piped up Cole. "You kids got something like that to drink around here?"

He grinned, and jerked his thumb behind him. "Yes sir, we do. Lemme go see what I can find." He ran off into a small crowd of people, who had now noted the arrival of the group and were beginning to pay some attention to them.

Baird placed a hand on Cole's back and spoke quietly into his ear. "Hey, remember, man – they ask any questions, just tell 'em we're doing some recon. Standard stuff."

Cole gave Baird a look and scrunched up his face. "Now you _know_ I ain't the one who's gonna blab!" he exclaimed. "You're the one who moves yo' mouth before yo' brain's in gear."

The driver of the jeep approached the trio, and spoke as he adjusted his sunglasses. "We just need to get a couple ration packs. Two boxes worth. Once we get that stowed in, we're good to go." He turned around and walked towards the crowd.

"Well, let's just use this time to stretch our legs out, do some yoga," muttered Baird. "Gonna be a heck of a long ride to where we're going."

Dom moved over to the jeep and leaned against it. "We taking a Raven to the site?" he asked.

"Don't know," answered Baird.

"Hoffman said something about a stealth craft." continued Dom, squinting in the afternoon glare.

"Can't be a Raven, then," concluded Baird. "Shouldn't be too hard to pick up a Raven on the radar."

"Where'd they get a stealth jet from anyway?" questioned Cole.

Dom shrugged. "Beats me. But considering that they pulled Orsa out of their bag of tricks, I wouldn't be surprised if they also had some fancy air support to go with it."

"True that," remarked Cole who seemed glad at the thought.

Just at that moment, the young boy returned, carrying a large metal canteen. He held it up to Cole. "Good old orange juice, sir. The best of the best. You can keep my bottle. If you want anything else, I'm your man."

Cole couldn't help but chuckle. He accepted the small gift and bent down, leveling himself to the boy's height. "My name's Cole. When this supply's gone, and when I'm done with work, maybe I'll come pay you and your family a visit. Your mama around?"

"Yes, sir. And I'm Richard – you can call me Ricky."

"You're one of the lucky ones, Ricky. And she's lucky to have you around. See that it stays that way, got it? And don't give her no trouble!" He winked at the boy.

Their driver strode back towards them and gave the trio a thumbs-up as he entered the vehicle. They were good to go. Baird stretched his arms out one more time and began to climb into the back, followed by Cole, who gave one last wave to his new friend. Dom put one leg onto the rear of the jeep, and was just about to hoist himself up when he glanced back at the people looking their way.

And that was when he saw her.

She was younger than how he remembered her, but that face was unmistakable. So was the thick black hair, and the almond-shaped eyes. It had appeared that she had seen him too, but her face looked alarmed, and faster than lightning, she stole away into the nearest tent.

Dom almost stumbled off the jeep. Cole cried out, but Dom couldn't hear. He ran away from the vehicle and into a group of people, pushing past them. Amidst some loud acclamations, he struggled by resistant shoulders and forms, and into the tent he had seen her enter. His heart beat solidly and quickly. His eyes searched the cloth shelter, scanning the faces that looked back up at him in astonishment.

"Maria!" he cried. "_Maria!_" He moved further into the tent, turning this way and that, his face plaintive and desperate.

Unaware of much of anything else, it took Dom several moments to acknowledge the presence of his friend, as he grasped Dom firmly by his shoulders, turning the agonized man's face towards his own. "Take it easy, take it easy..." soothed Cole. "She ain't here, man."

Baird, his face alarmed at this new development, stumbled in and walked to Cole's side. "Dom?"

Dom stared at Baird, his face blank.

"Hey man, this isn't the time or the place," muttered Baird, looking around at the many bewildered faces. "Let's go,"

The pair gently pushed their friend ahead of them and out of the large tent. A few people followed behind at a distance, curious.

Dom tried to turn around. "_I saw her_...I really did. I saw her," he mumbled.

"You saw what you wanted to see, Dom. I'm sorry," explained Baird, concerned.

Cole nodded towards the rear of the jeep. _Let's get him in_, he seemed to be suggesting. Baird complied as the two of them helped hoist their confounded friend into the stationary vehicle. Once in, Cole gave two solid thumps onto the metal partition that separated the driver's section from the passengers'. The engine gunned to life and slowly began to move forward.

"But I saw her," insisted Dom as he glanced up at Cole, his eyes pained and pleading. He cast his gaze back down to the floor. "I...I thought I saw her."

"You did," responded Cole slowly, "but only in here." he tapped the side of his own temple gently.

Dom lowered his head into his hands and groaned softly. "I wanna get off this place,"

Marcus, who had been sleeping for the duration of their long intermission, remained oblivious to the ongoing commotion as the jeep rumbled on and into the distance.

* * *

**3 hours later**

The small jet traveled through the clear night skies, its engine a silent hum in their ears. It was obviously not built for dogfights, nor was it capable of much combat, but it had four turbo boosting engines located at its tail end, and one on each wing. Its prowess lay in speed, and its sleek design was evidence of it. Each tapering contour of its architecture was made to take advantage of wind shears and jet streams, and its engineers seem to have ensured that it had the capability to outrun any pursuers.

Augustus Cole leaned back into his comfortable seat and glanced out the small window to his right. It was pitch black and there was nothing much to see. But it had been a while since he was given the opportunity to enjoy flight, especially in the absence of anti-aircraft fire and nemacysts, and he was determined to appreciate every minute of it. He caught brief glimpses of wisps of clouds whenever the moonlight broke through, and watched as the plane's wing sliced through them effortlessly.

His companions had been asleep for an hour now, save for Dom who had remained awake, until he too had finally caved in and shut his eyes. From where Cole was seated, he couldn't quite tell if he was truly asleep, but even rest was _something_, recognized Cole.

Dom's demeanor and claims to have seen his dead wife troubled him. The trauma of not being able to find her, and then having to have discovered her capture and torture at the hands of the Locust were pain enough for him. Cole firmly believed in closure, and he had believed that Dom had found it at Nexus – even if to some extent. It seemed cruelly ironic that Dom's memory coupled together with someone's resemblance to Maria had to surface at the same time. It prolonged the agonizing hurt of not knowing, and Cole knew how such emotions could tug at one's sanity.

But something more than the emotional distress of his friend was on his mind. It was the effects thereof that worried him. He had seen a fair number of his comrades suffer the aftermath of trauma – he remembered this one scrawny kid, Rocco, who had witnessed his father being torn apart by a frag grenade. And seeing as how his father – being newly conscripted into the COG – couldn't serve anymore, Rocco had to take his place. There were no excuses and no loopholes to exploit – the Gears needed all the men they could get. And from their point of view, tragedy of that sort should beget vengeance, which was all the more reason for young Rocco to pick up his lancer and wield it against the enemy. But Rocco had seen little of warfare, let alone partake of it. To make matters worse, it was obvious that he was enduring the ramifications of post-traumatic stress syndrome. And there were no shrinks or head doctors to recommend recuperative time off. Thrust in the middle of battle, and a part of Cole's squad during his early days, Cole knew that it would be a matter of time before the boy absorbed some bullets, or triggered a land mine – after all, there were a million and one ways to die a soldier's death. And die he did. Just the way Cole had imagined it too. Rocco's death was an indirect result of his mentality at the time – he was careless, unaware, inattentive. But then, who could blame him? Grief was an all-consuming scourge, a persistent wound. Once it took residence in his psyche, it squatted there – its roots strong and deep.

He'd seen it happen to veterans too. A fact which assuaged none of his worries. There was this one Colonel who'd left his post, and who'd braved the fires of Lima City back to Jacinto to see his family once again, only to find them dead, buried under the rubble of a decomposing building. He brought himself back to the war he felt he was now destined to fight, but now it was the _fight_ that had abandoned _him_. He took greater risks, he defied darker perils, gambling with a life he knew he would lose. Death had not wasted time in claiming him as well.

Cole sighed heavily. Dominic Santiago was a man of strength – both on the inside and on the outside. But his strength lay in his family, and as – one by one – he lost his parents, his brother, his children, and then his wife, the pain chipped away at his convictions and eroded his faith. But he stood up again, as he had found solace amongst his friends, men who he now considered to be his brothers. The search for Maria was over; it was time to turn his back on the past. He was beginning to _move on_. But seeing that woman shook Dom to his core, and seeing Dom so shaken had trembled Cole's own resolve. Cole was _not_ prepared to see another brother die.

It couldn't happen, though. It wouldn't.

_He'll be okay soon_, Cole reassured himself, seeking the comfort of denial. _Just like I was. He'll be okay_. _I'll keep an eye on him_.

He closed his eyes and slept.

* * *

"Hey, _wake up_,"

Cole jerked, eyes open and instantly alert. He blinked a few times into Dom's face, and it took him a few moments to assimilate his surroundings. He saw Marcus talking to the pilot in the cockpit's doorway, one arm against the door frame and the other carrying a medium-sized duffel bag. Cole turned back to see Baird strapping on his holster; adjusting the cords to the contours of his waist.

Dom had begun to ready his equipment to leave as well. "Better get a move on, man," he said, giving his weapons a quick once-over.

"We there already?" asked Cole, peering out the window. Dawn had broken, and the first rays of light were spreading across the water outside. "Hey man, we're on the sea..."

Dom smiled, as he packed an ammunitions clip onto his holster. "Yeah. We needed to have a water-landing. According to the pilot the engines are way too loud."

"_Say what?_ We expected to _swim_ to the shore?"

"Yeah, Cole," said Baird, overhearing. "I packed your floaties, too."

"Marcus man, tell me it ain't so," muttered Cole, not amused, turning his attention to his Sergeant.

Marcus walked past him towards the rear of the aircraft, speaking as he did so. "Can't be helped, Cole." He reached into a large crate, and pulled up what initially appeared to be large bag packs. He handed one to Baird, Dom and then finally held one out to Cole.

Cole accepted the item somewhat awkwardly. Upon closer examination, he noticed that it was the furthest thing from a bag pack. The inelegant device had two sides to it; the first was flat and had nylon straps on either side, while the second was curved and contoured. To its end was attached some kind of motor, its blades encased in a mesh-like, metal cage.

"What the fuck is this?" he asked.

"A DPV," came out the pilot's voice, as he emerged from his small compartment. "A Diver Propulsion Vehicle. Here," he held out his hand for Cole to hand him the large article. "You're going to have to hold on to it like so," He placed the flat end to his chest and began to adjust the straps and cords around his upper torso, and in a few moments, the strange piece of equipment was attached to him. He looked like someone who'd fastened a bizarre baby-carrier to himself. "See these notches here? You grab a hold of them when you're on the water. 'Course you're not going to be standing vertically in the water, you're going to be moving forward with the help of the motor along a horizontal plane..."

Cole shut his eyes and shook his head. "I am _not_ gonna be doing no diving."

"What's the matter, Cole? Afraid of the water?" piped up Baird, thoroughly enjoying the unfolding scene. "I told you I got your favourite floaties, didn't I? This is it!"

"I ain't doing no diving," repeated Cole, a little less confident this time.

Marcus put a hand on the large man's shoulder. "We're not going underwater, Cole. We just need to use it to get to shore. Now come on, we've got places to be."

"All I know is," began Cole, accepting the instrument very reluctantly, "I ain't _never_ seen no train on water."

* * *

**2 hours later**

**The outskirts of Elingrad**

"Come on guys," said Marcus, "let's pick up the pace. Kryll or no kryll, I wanna get to the site before sun-down."

"The train's runnin' on time, baby. It's these other slackers you gotta worry 'bout," shouted Cole, a few yards behind Marcus.

Dom said nothing, but surveyed their surroundings in silence and mulled over the last few hours. The flight to Elingrad was uneventful, as was their landing. They picked up nothing noteworthy on their radar; much to everyone's relief. It was bad enough to be detected, but to be found out right from the start sure would put a proverbial _and _literal crimp in their plans.

Elingrad itself was deserted, and blotched with the occasional Locust sinkhole. Those were old, however, and partially covered with months...or years even, of rubble and dust. Rusted cars, trucks and vans lined the remaining discernible streets, neglected. It was almost as if time here had come to a standstill. As if tectonic plates had pushed up against one another in fury in a single blinding moment – splitting the earth upwards, creating deep chasms. But if one looked closer, there were discoloured splotches on barriers, vehicles – the ground even. And these stains were dark and old, some sporadically surrounded by the penetrating thrusts of bullet holes.

It wasn't hard to figure out what had happened. After all, why should it be? Timgad, Lima, Montevado and even parts of Jacinto were testaments to the emergence of the Locust hordes. It wasn't anything new, and it didn't demand further examination.

Baird, who had walked by Cole's side all the way from the landing site, broke his step with his friend and jogged forward towards Marcus.

"Look, I know we didn't catch anything on the radar, but I think we're pretty damned conspicuous out here. It's high noon up there and we're sitting ducks down here."

Marcus kept his gaze on their path ahead of them, and spoke. "We're not gonna wait until dusk to move out, Baird."

"The kryll aren't going to get us, you _know_ that," he protested, "If any of the Locusts have snipers up on those damn rooftops, we're goners."

"There are no snipers up on those rooftops because they don't appear on the scanners," explained Marcus slowly, as if elucidating something to a child.

"Then what's the hurry?"

"There might be survivors." responded Marcus, his face deadpan.

"Well, if they had half a brain," mused Baird, "they'd get the hell away from this place."

"Why should they?" came out Dom's voice, after having overheard the pair's short conversation. "Elingrad is dead. What better place to hide than a city center that's already been hit?"

"_Guys_." said Marcus suddenly. Sometimes he wasn't sure if they understood the gravity of the situation – and how different it was from their previous engagements. If anything happened to them now, they could seal Orsa's fate in one horrible moment. If screw-ups were going to occur, he was dead certain they wouldn't crop up on his watch. "This isn't a tour. We're going to the site – end of story. Now all of you, _shut up_."

* * *

**Dusk**

**Elingrad Town Square**

"This place must've been something else," murmured Baird, as he looked up at crumbling statues and the scorched marble tiles that had adorned burnt buildings. "Heard people talk about it...but I just chalked it down to cook-ups, you know?"

"Sure was," agreed Dom, as he stepped over a large chunk of granite rock.

Cole wasn't in the mood to be aesthetically appreciative. Instead, he looked over at Marcus, who had pulled out an electronic hand-held map. He was gazing at it with considerable interest. Cole walked over to him. "Yo Marcus, whatchu lookin' at?"

"According to this," began Marcus, "the outpost should be less than a quarter mile away from the Circle Monument. No wait, it should be a couple yards away,"

"But we're at the monument," noted Cole, loosely gesturing towards a broken effigy of some fallen war veteran.

"Yeah I know." Marcus turned on his communication device, in an attempt to contact his superiors. "Control, this is Delta."

A brief hiss of static. "_You're coming in loud and clear, Seargent_," came out Anya's voice – tinged with a hint of relief. "_Are you on site?_" she asked.

"Yes and no. We followed the coordinates, but the base is missing."

"_Roger that, Delta. Are you in front of the Walden Memorial Statue?_"

"Yes," he sounded worn, tired.

"_There should be an entrance to a subway station somewhere around your location. Within a seven-meter radius. The base is underground_."

Marcus felt like slapping himself. Of course the base had to be underground – it wasn't a damned parade float. He shook his head and spoke, irritated at his lapse in assessment skills. "Roger that, Control, I see it now. We'll make our way inside and then report in."

"_Copy that. Use precaution_," she added, as an afterthought.

The signal clicked off, and Marcus walked over to the others. "Alright guys, we got no room for mistakes this time. Baird, you're with me. Dom, Cole, you two take opposite flanking positions on either side of the subway entrance. We're going to check out this shithole and get back to you. When we give the all-clear, you guys waste no time in hauling ass underground, you got that?"

Dom and Cole nodded, hands already over their lancers. In the waning light, Cole grinned. As much as he hated the prolonged heat of battle, he had spent far too much time training green recruits on Orsa. He'd had enough of the mulling and the waiting. If something big was going to go down, he wanted to face it with his head held high. He wasn't about ready to back down from this fight. At least, not yet.

Moments later, Marcus, taking point with Baird close behind, walked slowly down the stairway, the tunnel ahead darkened and ominous. "Keep it tight," he whispered back to his companion.

If Baird had heard, he didn't let on. Instead, all his senses seemed to peak, attune to any hint of danger. His muscles tightened, but he kept his index finger loose from his lancer's trigger. After all, this was no time to be trigger-go-lucky. Fortunately, the sun had almost gone down during the latter half of their trip and it was more or less easy for his eyes to make the transition from surface to underground. He thought he made out several sturdy pillars ahead of them, but beyond that – the darkness enshrouded everything beyond recognition.

"We need light," whispered Baird.

_Might versus light_; the phrase came suddenly to Marcus' mind, as he recalled the words of a dead fellow soldier. What he wouldn't give to have his old friend by his side now. But circumstance was what it was, and there was no changing it. "No glow-worms tonight," said Marcus quietly, referring to the possibility that light could attract unwelcome attention.

"_Shit_," hissed Baird, more annoyed at their situation than at his Sergeant's refusal.

At the bottom of the stairs now, their eyes were steadily beginning to adjust to the gaping darkness. A little light from the surface filtered through the subway entrance, casting light on decrepit benches and a kaleidoscope of litter and debris on the station floor.

Marcus let out a breath. He activated his communicator. "Control, this is Delta. We're in the subway."

"_Copy that, Sergeant. I'm looking at the blueprints right now. You need to get off the platform and onto the tracks. Head south – one click away, there should be a block_ – "

"A block?" asked Baird, confused.

"_Yes, like a road block – except in a tunnel_," explained Anya. "_Some of the obstacles are moveable. You'll understand when you get there_."

"Uh...yeah, okay." said Baird, not very sure if he comprehended what she meant.

Marcus stayed silent, beckoning for Baird to follow him. He jumped off the platform and onto the undisturbed tracks. He stared into the near-lightless tunnel, and breathed out. His steps were sure and certain, his lancer steady in his hand. The silence was deafening, and he was certain that it was tormenting Baird no end.

And, just as predicted, "See our road-block yet?" Baird asked softly.

"Yes," said Marcus after several moments. He moved towards large blocks, disordered and randomly stacked atop one another, as if the tunnel had caved in. He glanced upwards and saw a gaping hole in the ceiling. _Well, that explains it_, he thought. "Control, I see it. Now what?"

"_There should be moveable blocks. You need to shift them aside._"

"Okay. Baird, get to work. I'll watch our backs."

Baird let out a quiet groan. "Aw man, I didn't sign up for this kind of manual labour," But despite his complaints, he stepped forward and tested each small boulder. Some were far too heavy to dislodge, and he looked back at his Sergeant. Marcus nodded his head in the direction of the other boulders. Baird began to test each one systematically until he picked up one solid stone with considerable ease. Following that, the others were easier to find and to identify. Within minutes, he had shifted five of them, thereby creating an aperture sizeable enough for a child to fit through.

Baird straightened his back, grimacing. "All yours, bossman. You wanna jump down the rabbit hole?"

Marcus looked at him and then slung his lancer over his back. "Watch the tunnel."

With that, he stooped down onto his hands and knees, and crawled forward. He didn't have far to go because within seconds he was on the other side of the rocky partition. Standing up he said, "Baird. I'm clear, come on through."

While Baird was making his way, Marcus surveyed the subway's tunnel. Its path led to darkness, but he quickly made out the unmistakable form of a door, standing to his left, unimposing and solitary. He moved to it, and jiggled the door handle. It was locked. Almost immediately, he checked for a control panel and partially groping the sides of the wall that framed the door, he recognized a square structure with several small protrusions lined up in rows and columns.

"Control, I found the access panel."

"_Copy that, Delta. Hit these numbers in sequence: two-two-seven-oh-four-nine_."

Marcus did as instructed just as Baird came up alongside him. "This isn't exactly the safest vault in the business," he noted. "What's gonna stop anyone from blowing this entrance up?"

"The door's wired," explained Marcus, recalling the pieces of information Hoffman had tried to drill into him. Given the short span in which he had tried to process it all, it was a miracle that he'd managed to remember anything. "An explosion here would trigger a chain of linked explosives. The code's the only thing that turns it off."

"Oh, of course," said Baird, his voice sarcastic. And then, as if he had just considered something, "If no one got in – and it looks like no one did – why the hell aren't they responding?"

"That's what we're about to find out," spoke Marcus, his face grim.

* * *

"_Dom, Cole, get down here_." came out the slightly muffled, but unmistakable voice of Marcus.

"Yo man, everything cool down there?" spoke Cole softly into his earpiece, as a light wind brushed up against his face.

"_For the time being_." responded his Sergeant.

"I don't think we should set up camp here, though," said Dom, as he looked back over his shoulder. "Not even down in the subway,"

"_I agree_," said Marcus. "_We'll take what we need from here and leave_."

Cole nodded towards Dom, who stood up from his crouched position, and began to descend down the stairway. Cole followed behind.

When the pair had made their way through the barrier of rocks, they found the door that Marcus and Baird had discovered, open. A small light – its source appeared to be a solitary kerosene lamp – illuminated the room. And as Dom stepped in, he noticed that there was an adjoining room behind the first. It was a little larger, but seeing as how the entryway room was quite diminutive, not much could be said for the cramped conditions its former inhabitants had to endure. Other than the fact that they had Dom's sympathies.

He caught Baird at the far end of the second room, working away in front of several pieces of equipment; a dead computer, some newfangled kind of switchboard and a crude excuse for a two-way radio. The room in which Dom stood seemed to be their main living area. There was a set of four mattresses, a small dead freezer and a portable cooking stove – its burners apparently coated with layers of grime.

"Not exactly the lap of luxury," muttered Dom, as he made his way further in.

"No, it isn't." agreed Marcus. He turned his attention to Cole, who let out a low whistle at the sight of the room. "Cole, we need a lookout on the other side of the door. You're it."

The burly man nodded and did as instructed.

Dom looked at Marcus and spoke, "No bodies. You gave Control an update?"

"Yeah,"

"What's their verdict?"

"Don't know. They're trying to assess the situation."

"No shit,"

"Tell me about it. There are no signs of a struggle, the door wasn't even forced open. But this place just reeks of wrong," said Marcus.

"Smells like our Gears were mingling too closely with the stranded," commented Baird, from his corner.

Dom rolled his eyes. "What's he doing?"

"Trying to get the radio going." explained Marcus.

"_That_ piece of junk?" scoffed Dom, jerking his thumb towards the archaic receiver. "_Good luck_."

"We all gotta come from somewhere," interjected Baird, "if we didn't have her, we'd never have had wireless communication devices. And besides, looks like they hooked up some high tech to low tech – they bridged the circuitry and created a symbiotic bypass," Baird pointed at the switchboard.

"You lost me there. Layman's terms, Baird, layman's terms." said Dom, irritated and tired, not to mention fearful about this new turn of events.

"Look, you see the transmitter...that matriarch of a radio over there? She's solid and as dependable as they come. She was built to be stripped, and stripped to be built. A ten-year old could re-assemble one of those. And the switchboard – now _that's_ pretty new – is just an accessory. It helps her latch on to frequencies better, expands her horizons. And she returns the favour by stabilizing the AC power. You know."

"You sure do love to anthropomorphosize your gadgets, don't you?" quipped Dom through his tiredness.

Baird turned his attention to the Corporal briefly. "And you sure are rhetorical today, aren't you? What, you read a dictionary on our flight here?"

Marcus rubbed his eyes. "_Guys_, we got work to do. Baird, did you patch things up over there?"

"Not yet, but no sweat. Give me five more minutes."

"That soon?" questioned Dom, to no one in particular. "You know what that means,"

Marcus nodded. "Yeah. It means that either they were captured elsewhere, or they were tricked into opening the door. If this only takes a couple minutes to repair, and they couldn't do it, must've been something serious to stop 'em from doing so."

"I'll bite. Seems more likely, though, that they were tricked into going out. After all, they couldn't have all gone out at the same time. Must've had someone lure them out. Which reminds me..." Dom's voice tapered off and he began looking amongst the rooms' Spartan surroundings.

"What is it?" asked Marcus.

Dom looked up from his bent position, holding a small stack of books in his hand. "They must have kept a log, it seems foolish not to."

"You mean a journal?" piped up Baird. Dom nodded. "There's a pile of papers underneath the radio here. I just figured they put it under to keep her from rocking side to side. I hate it when equipment does that."

Marcus walked over towards the transmitter and gently pulled out the small mass of papers. He scrutinized each one in the dim light of the lamp, when a somewhat large notebook slipped through his grasp and onto the floor. He set the other sheets aside and opened the slightly tattered book.

"Paydirt?" asked Dom, coming to his side, tilting his neck to one side to get a look at it.

Marcus read the unmistakable writing of the day, month and the year at the top of the first page. Following it were somewhat discernible writings – the scrawls not haphazard enough to be illegible, and not organized enough to be neat.

"Paydirt." replied Marcus.

"Skip to the last entry," suggested Dom, "we can read the rest later."

Marcus took Dom's advice and flipped through the pages quickly, searching for a blank leaf. Finding it, he placed the notebook on a small table – juxtaposing it to the kerosene lamp. He held it open wider with both hands, when both his and Dom's eyes were drawn to large – and quite legible – writing:

_Listen to the radio_.

Marcus looked at Dom, his face growing slightly darker with worry. He quickly turned to Baird. "Does the radio work yet?"

"No, no, give me a few more minutes with her, okay?" responded an annoyed Baird.

"No," Marcus shook his head and reiterated himself. "I mean, can the radio play recordings? Are there any on there?"

Baird scrunched his face up in confusion. "Well yeah. She's not that old. And I've patched her up enough so that some parts of her function okay." He paused. "But what for? You feeling sentimental?"

Marcus ignored the remark. "Just find whatever recordings you can, and _play them_." he instructed.

"Sure thing, bossman."

An agonizing minute later, the radio crackled to life, the hiss of static the only sound that could be perceived in the small room. The trio crowded around it. Then they heard a crescendo of heavy panting, and a guttural growl in the background followed by something that barely resembled a woman's sob. Then without much warning, an unearthly wail dominated all other noise for several moments, until the sobs could be heard again. Amidst the painful cacophony, a male voice – there was no doubt it was human – seemed to be muttering mindless drivel. It metamorphosized into a sort of incantation; over and over and over again. The sobs were coming in much louder now, overcoming all else until they broke out into one piercing scream. It was a macabre symphony – and its small audience longed for its finale.

"Turn that damned thing off," said Dom, saying what his two other companions could not. His mouth was dry, and his heart seemed entrenched, profoundly disturbed. He'd never heard anything like it in his life.

Baird cut the recording short.

"How much more is there..." spoke Marcus, his voice so low it could barely be heard.

"Uh..." Baird paused for several seconds, reclaiming his fragmented composure. "Thirty seconds of it."

"Thirty seconds of it." repeated Marcus. "That makes it four and a half minutes long."

"_Fuck me_." muttered Baird.

Just at that minute, Cole had walked into the room, his eyes widened and his lips parted. He'd heard it too. "_What the hell_..." He pointed at the radio situated in front of Baird, and then stared at Marcus.

"Get back to your post," said Marcus, suddenly taking charge, issuing orders. This was neither the time nor place to make any conjectures. Confusion wasn't an option. They needed to organize. "Baird, forget about the radio – take any more recordings you can find with you – including this one. Dom, do a quick search. Grab any journals you can find..." he counted off the items on his fingers, "...tapes, tags, portable drives. Anything you think could link us to their whereabouts."

"If they're alive…" mumbled Dom.

"Move _fast_, guys. I don't wanna be here any longer than we have to."

* * *

The night had pressed on, the clouds were but wisps – allowing for the moon at its zenith to light up their paths. Emptied and derelict buildings gazed down on them through their hollow windows, a silent, ghostly reminder of the past.

But their thoughts were lost to such admonitions, occupied instead by the cacophony of noises they had subjected themselves to listening to on the tape. They were ghosts of a sort, themselves. The echoing reminders did not stop, and all four of them were quite aware that although time would dull the repetition, it would certainly not dull the memory.

Baird, who could never endure lengthy silences, was particularly tormented by this one, and rightfully so. He felt as if he had to say something. _Anything_. "Think the Locust hit the outpost?"

There was silence again.

Finally, Cole spoke up. _Good ol' Cole_, thought Baird gratefully; he had picked on Baird's emotions...or maybe he simply sought some inane chatter as well. Either way, it was very welcome.

"Locust may be the scum of the earth, man, but _that_...they may be a lot of things, but they ain't…" said Cole, his voice trailing off.

"..._evil_." finished Dom quietly. "That shit was evil."

"I ain't gonna argue 'bout that," agreed Cole.

"There was a woman on the team, wasn't there?" asked Baird suddenly.

"Yes." responded Marcus. "And I know what you're thinking Baird, so drop it."

"They were fucking torturing her, man!" said Baird, trying to keep his voice low. "I've heard people dying, I've heard them scream. She wasn't dying. She was – "

Dom stopped in his tracks. He put his hand to his head. "_Please_, let's not, okay? Just...don't go there, Damon."

Baird shut his eyes and felt like slapping himself. He felt like the biggest prick in the world. "Dom. _Man_. I'm sorry,"

Dom held up a placating hand. "Look, it's okay. Just...if you bring it up again, wait till I'm gone, alright? Can you do that?"

Baird nodded. "Not a problem."

Just then, something shattered through the night, its sound ricocheting about them, reverberating off the building walls. It was the distinct noise of a single shot from a pistol. Instinctively, the four of them hit the ground, seeking cover. Cole and Baird scuttled off behind a mid-sized van while Marcus and Dom ducked into the doorway of an empty store.

"_You supposed to keep an eye on the radar, man!_" Cole hissed at his friend.

"_Me?!_" said Baird, his voice a little high-pitched. "How come when something goes wrong it's always gotta be _my_ fault?"

On the left side of the street and within the door frame, Marcus peered out, Boltok pistol in hand. Dom had readied his sniper rifle and whispered to his friend. "See anything? Ambush?"

Marcus shook his head. He then signaled to Cole who emerged slightly from cover. Marcus pointed his index finger upwards, making small circles in the air. Cole seemed to acknowledge the gesture, because he pulled out the scanner and analyzed it. Marcus braced himself for more shots when Cole signaled back, holding two fingers up in the air. He pointed emphatically out into the street to their left, and then towards the roof of a building behind them.

"We got a sniper." whispered Marcus.

"_Shit_," said Dom.

"We're gonna have to draw 'em out." Marcus spoke into his headpiece. "Baird, Cole, if our sniper changes position, you two are sitting ducks out there. Find better cover. Dom, stay hidden and quiet."

Marcus watched as his friends crawled out on their elbows and knees, following the path of shadows to a more suitable place of safety. In the meantime, Dom was peering out at the rooftops through his scope, panning left and right – looking for their pursuer.

"Alright guys. I'm going out. Dom, watch the roof. Cole, Baird, you two keep an eye out for that pistol-wielding moron."

Marcus took a deep breath, and snuck out the doorway. He then raised himself up into a semi-crouch, his head and torso clearly visible by the light of the moon. _Being careful is all well and good, Anya_, thought Marcus. _But dodging bullets is another feat altogether_. He thought he saw something move, but before any sense could be made of the fleeting moment, he heard another crack. This time, it came from behind him instead of from the streets.

_Either Dom got our sniper_, he thought, _or the sniper got me_.

But then he heard a groan several yards in front of him; inhuman. It was followed by a gurgle that belonged to death, and death alone.

_That's one down_.

He looked back, trying to assess what had happened. Dom couldn't have taken out the shooter in the streets from that angle. It was impossible. But that sound – it was unmistakable. It had come from the barrel of a sniper. He saw Baird hold his lancer tightly. Cole was steadying his aim by placing his own pistol on a chunk of hardened cement. _Then who_…?

"All clear!" called out a voice. A man's voice.

The trio were smart enough to remain hidden – they weren't about to rescind their lives into the hands of whoever the hell that was. Saviour could turn villain in the instance of a second. But Marcus had realized that he'd been spotted; there was nothing for it now. He took his chances and stood up.

"_Who the fuck are you?!_" he yelled out.

The man stepped into view, his form casting a thin, featureless silhouette in the moonlight. He held up both his hands as if to say _wait_, and then disappeared from their sight.

A minute later, they heard a _swish-bang_, the sound of a swinging door from their right. The figure of a man emerged from the shadows, and if not for the noise of the door and the light of the luminescent moon, they never would have known he was there. As he neared them, Marcus tilted his head to one side, studying him, taking in whatever first appearances could betray.

He wasn't very young – perhaps he was in his late twenties or early thirties. He was clean shaven – he couldn't have been out here more than three days. His face was handsome, if slightly gaunt, and this hinted at malnutrition. _Unless of course_, thought Marcus, _he was already ill_. But his eyes...his eyes seemed eerily reminiscent of a past moment Marcus couldn't quite recall. They were cold, devoid of emotion but too penetrating for his liking. Almost instantly, Marcus' guard went up ten-fold. There was something wrong here, something missing. And he wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

_Don't let on_, he told himself. _Just sit it out. Just wait_.

"Who are you?" he asked. _Introductions first_.

"Corporal Sebastian Velko." In one hand he held his sniper, leaving the other free for a handshake. But he didn't extend it. "Who're you? The fucking rescue team?"

_No warm welcomes, then_, mused Marcus. Maybe he _could_ find a thing or two to like about him. "No." He mentally ran through a checklist of the people stationed at Elingrad's outpost. The name Velko didn't ring a bell at all. "What're you doing out here?"

By then, Dom, Cole and Baird had emerged from the shadows, and had crowded in front of the man, tired yet curious.

"I was Orsa's lookout." he explained.

Marcus laughed dryly. "There's no Sebastian Velko on the list, buddy. Think fast."

The man shrugged his shoulders, unfazed. "Well maybe there was a Goran Vujacic, then."

Marcus was surprised – there _was_ a Vujacic on the team. He kept his face bland. "You're not making any sense."

The newcomer's face broke into a smile, and this caught him off guard as well. The expression seemed genuine. "Yeah. You know what does make sense, though? I killed Vujacic, along with Shannon, Dawes and Werbowski. I then assumed Vujacic's identity, and am now living the rest of my days out hunting Locust. Because I am the enemy that kills my enemy who kills your enemy. Because that makes _so_ much sense."

Marcus' eyes went from the man's face to Dom's, and then back again. "_Stop wasting our time,_" he advised, his voice low and a little dangerous.

"Then stop wasting mine." he said, his smile vanishing instantly. "Either you take me at my word or not. If you don't, let's just part here and now and decide never to see each other again."

"If you killed your team, you asshole – if you're the one who did those things to them on the tape – you're going to take a couple bullets with you when you go."

"You heard the recording, huh?" he asked. "Now _that_ was something else." Just then, he cast his eyes down, his shoulders drooping slightly.

Suddenly, Cole brought his face up in front of the man, his eyes narrow and angry. "Marcus man, you just say the word and I'll bust a cap in his ass."

He raised his eyes to level them with Cole's, and didn't blink. "Some rescue team."

Dom placed an arm on Cole's shoulder, and pulled it back gently. "_Easy_, Cole. He didn't kill them."

"How can you be so sure?" asked Cole, not taking his eyes off the man.

"Because he just got back from hell." said Dom, his voice a steady monotone.

Cole reluctantly stepped aside, and for a single moment, Dom locked eyes with the younger man, and it seemed as if some connection – grief identifying grief – was made. He gave Dom a barely perceptible nod, which Dom then returned.

Marcus sighed. Dom always called it as he saw it. And more often than not, he knew that his friend's emotional intelligence surpassed his own by a milestone. Still slightly averse to giving this individual the benefit of the doubt, he realized that this petulant little council was a waste of time, and more importantly, dangerous. They needed someplace safe for the night. Some other place to do their bickering.

"Velko," he said addressing the man, "You got a place to go?"

"You mean, do _I_ have a place for _you_ to go, don't you?" He chuckled to himself. "Yeah. I do. Just follow me."

With that, he turned and began to walk away, his new companions in tow behind him.

He shook his head and wondered to himself; _this was some rescue_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note:**

**Thanks very much, guys, for all the reviews so far. They make my day!**

**A fair warning to you poor souls who're following this; this chapter is longer than the last. Because in my usual moronic fashion, I simply _had_ to focus on developing some of the newer characters, and fill in the gulf with an intermission between the action and dialog scenes (which are both in this chapter). 'Cos basically, if I don't have a feel for what's going on, I don't connect with any of the people in the story. And secondly, the intermissions will hopefully explain some things. But I feel the need to apologize to you, regardless - I just find it difficult, dolt that I am, to update regularly. So what tends to happen then is that I "make up" for the lack of quick updates by incorporating several events into one chapter.**

**And lastly, but not least-ly (yay for screwed-up grammar), I wanted to thank my _extremely_ helpful co-editor, who goes solely by the name of Sasquatch, for finding plot holes, and telling me when something seems too out of character. Oh, and if anyone can spot an A Team reference here, lemme know...**

**Now, feel free to torment yourselves with this ginormous book...uh, I mean chapter.**

* * *

The wind picked up a little, tenderly disturbing items that succumbed to the force. It brushed up against their exhausted faces – as if it was the only solace left alive in the derelict city of Elingrad. The five of them were glad for its kindness, since clear through the night sky was, conditions had been warm, muggy and stale. But their appreciativeness was sporadic; recent events dancing an obscene jig in their minds.

The tune that sung in Marcus' head was that of mistrust. He and the others had acknowledged that a quarrel in the middle of the street was not the most scholarly of ideas. If one lone Locust had discovered them with such ease, and if his absence had been noted by his counterparts, it was only a matter of time before reinforcements arrived. And given that one of the purposes of this mission was to attract as little attention as possible, they would have already failed in the span of a mere twenty-four hours. They needed to get off the streets as quick as possible.

But their second alternative was only a little less troubling than the first. Following this person, this stranger, meant that they were placing their lives in his hands. Of course, Delta squad had proven themselves to be quite capable at holding their own, but this did not demand that every situation be assessed lightly. Overconfidence was a trait that didn't befit many. Fighting and winning was all well and good, but if one was given the opportunity to lay down arms without incurring much damage or compromising little, then only a fool would lust after battle.

But in this instance, Marcus knew little of what lay ahead. He couldn't appraise a situation that hadn't yet befallen them. The best he could do was to urge caution; for himself and the others in his squad.

_Easier said than done_, he realized.

The others followed Velko just as quietly, save for Baird, who looked about them, anxious and agitated. He seemed to be making a mental note of things; he stared long and hard at broken street signs, corner stores, wrecked post boxes.

Marcus couldn't help but smile. It appeared that he, too, was following this newcomer with considerable trepidation. Even though they could not have been walking longer than ten minutes, his concerns were rising steadily and quickly.

They approached an intersection, at which Velko took a left, and walked into a neglected and ramshackle store. The windows had been shattered, glass fragments absent or else just too hard to see; indicating that its demise must have come months, or even years ago. Marcus nodded to Dom, who recognized the gesture and kept his lancer close as a result.

"Where are we going?" came Baird, as he brushed up against the store's counter.

"You'll see." answered Velko. He moved purposefully to the back of the shop, ignoring the scattered debris of items in the store's aisles, stepping over this and that without bothering to make any closer observations.

_He's obviously been through here before_, noted Marcus.

Velko walked past a small room – that appeared to have had served as an office – and through a narrow corridor, before reaching the back exit. The words: _Caution – Use of Emergency Exit Will Trigger Alarm_ were stenciled onto the door, but all five of them knew that the warning had been obsolete for quite a while. Velko pushed it open and entered a dim alleyway.

He then turned to Marcus, "You got a JACK bot?" he asked.

"Yeah. We haven't activated him yet," replied Marcus, a little slowly. "Why?"

"I'd scan the area if I were you. This back way intersects several side streets. I've been jumped here once or twice."

"We got a scanner," said Cole, pulling out the portable device.

"Use it." instructed Velko. "If we get company – and I'm sure they're on their way after I shot that guy – I know some shortcuts we can take."

Cole did as he advised.

"What do Locust want with Elingrad?" asked Dom. "The city's dead – what can they really get out of it?"

"Buddy, in case you haven't noticed – the rest of my squad were found out here. The Locust must think there are more bases. They'll probably keep it under surveillance."

"_Are_ there any more bases?" asked Baird.

"Not that I know of," responded Velko. He turned his attention to Cole. "See anything?"

Cole shook his head. "Signal's getting a little screwy." He looked about their surroundings. "Must be some interference from the buildings. But no, I don't see anything."

Velko looked relieved, and motioned for the others to continue to follow.

Marcus felt on edge, questions raced through his mind, reaching the tip of his tongue. "What happened to the rest of your squad?"

"I thought you'd already decided that I killed them," spoke Velko, not turning around.

Marcus wanted to tell the kid to stop mucking about, but he hadn't responded well to the accusation before, and he doubted that his reaction would improve the second time around. "All I want is the truth," said Marcus as he quickened his pace to catch up to him.

Velko gave him a sidelong glance, and then looked away, as if considering something. "You don't want the truth. You just want me to tell you what you want to hear,"

Marcus shook his head. Apparently their first impressions of one another hadn't quite gotten off to a terrific start. A part of him had identified with the younger man's mistrust, but some of it seemed misplaced. Marcus himself reserved most of his apprehensions for politicians – and the flowery prose through which they veiled their false promises with. His remaining concerns he held for his skills in battle, and the undertaking of Delta squad's missions. But whatever the case, he never had much reason to doubt the good faith of his fellow soldiers. Whatever they gave to the cause; it was given with noble intentions – to honor the dead and to bring hope to the future. Even vengeance, tainted thought it was, stemmed from the lost love of someone dear. The stench of emotionless political manipulations almost always blemished the roots of such evocations – which was why he could never stomach policy, legislature and such affairs.

The loss of his father, and the desperate rush to save his life had lead to an abandonment of duty. And upon his failure to deliver the one he cared for, he was tried and deemed guilty for forsaking his responsibilities to the COG. It was the cold hand of the law that had stolen him away, locked him in prison, left him to be forgotten. How could he forget such a betrayal from a country and a cause he had dedicated so much to?

He could hate the puppeteer, but he could never bring himself to hate the puppet.

"You got a thing against Gears?" he asked, bracing himself for an answer he wasn't sure he would like.

"Maybe he's just forgotten that he was one," put in Baird.

Velko didn't slow down, and kept a steady pace. "Doesn't matter who you are out here anymore. If you think things changed after E-Day, you should see it now," He thrust one hand into the pocket of the long jacket he wore. "There are only two distinctions: Locust, and non-Locusts."

"What're you talking about?" questioned Dom.

"He means that there are more Locust now than humans," explained Baird, slowly coming to an understanding. He wasn't too surprised to be witness to this sort of evolution; it was the natural order of things. But although the assumption was expected, he couldn't quell the disquiet within. After all, they weren't the species that destiny had favoured. "Used to be that everything that wasn't human, was alien. Now, everything that isn't Locust...is, well, soon-to-be legend."

"Exactly," said Velko, giving Baird a second glance.

"What about the stranded?" asked Dom.

"What about them? They're around. Small pockets of their camps here and there. And if you think you Gears were on bad terms with them before – well, the feeling's mutual. Except that it's ten-times worse." Velko took his hand out of his pocket and scratched his head. "Look, you guys don't seem to realize what you've done. You sunk Jacinto, and evacuated your men and a couple survivors in the vicinity. Then you all hauled ass to Orsa without looking back. You left the rest to fend for themselves. You've created a _rift_ within a culture. You've got your Orsan humans, and then you've got the ones you abandoned."

"Man, you really ain't one of us anymore, are you?" remarked Cole.

Velko said nothing, but stopped in his tracks. They had come to the end of the small street, and stared at a main road – a T-intersection of sorts. He looked right, and pointed up ahead to a large building. The soft glow of dawn was beginning to spread across the horizon, and it illuminated what appeared to be a decrepit warehouse. It was three storeys tall, the big windows cracked or broken, allowing for a glimpse of dark, lonely rooms within. "Not a great idea to be wandering about during the day out here," he announced, before making his way towards the structure.

Upon closer examination, Delta squad noted the name of the building - sprayed through a stencil in what used to be white paint. Now the colour had darkened with grime and weather-wear; parts of the paint were chipped and peeling off, only portions of the large letters visible. Legible enough to read, however, came the words _Bigelow's & Sons Brewery_, staring off into the empty street.

The door to the main entrance looked as if it would have been quite grand in its time, but now the bronze frame had discoloured, and the tinted glass had broken in; fragments of its rainbow shards lying across the ground. A similar phenomenon could be attested to the once-rich bricks which were spotted and damaged from firefights and explosives; its deep red hues now brown and stymied with the growth of vines that advanced within its cracks.

The five of them entered the building cautiously, following closely behind Velko.

"Is this your safe place?" asked Baird, as he kicked aside some shards of glass.

"If their beer's still here," began Cole, "I'll make it my _happy place_."

Velko smiled. "The stuff here doesn't get better with age, I'm afraid. But no, where we're going is still a long way off."

Marcus, who had remained silent all the while, felt doubt seeding itself again. There was no point to arguing and bickering, especially if both parties had already made up their minds, but the going _was_ dangerous, and not knowing where to made it even more so. "How far away?" he asked.

"A good portion of the day," replied Velko.

Marcus' brows knitted together. "Where exactly are you taking us?"

"Out of the city."

He was getting tired of elusive answers. "Are you taking us to a stranded camp? An old base? _Where?_ How the fuck can you expect us to trust you when you don't tell us anything?"

Velko studied the battle-hardened man before him. "I had a great line on you guys. Especially the blond and this other guy over here," said Velko, nodding in Cole's direction. "I had an even better line when _you_ came out onto the streets. I could have taken you out without you even knowing it."

"That doesn't answer anything," growled Marcus. "The only reason you keep someone alive is for information."

"Oh that's rich," said Velko, his temper rising. "What could you possibly have that I would want?"

"The location of Orsa." said Marcus, without batting an eye.

Velko swallowed. True, his squad were never given the exact coordinates to the island. And again, it was true that it provided more of a safe haven than whatever the Seran mainland had to offer. He should have been envious, but he wasn't. Having drawn the shorter straw had made him realize that all Orsa could really bestow in the long run was a pair of blinders. The sinking of Jacinto and the flooding of the hollow could only provide temporarily relief – a calm center to a raging storm.

But even if he had known Orsa's location, and was tortured for its knowledge, he liked to think that he would have chosen death over a revelation of that sort. He wasn't the only one who was slightly miffed with the COG for keeping them in the dark. The rest of his squad had felt the same way. It wasn't a logical feeling, but then again, when was the last time when emotion felt rational?

"I'm not interested in Orsa," declared Velko, his voice lacking conviction.

"Then why not tell us what's going on?" asked Dom, impatient.

Velko paused, having reached an invisible crossroads in his mind. He had believed that anyone who wasn't friendly to the Locust were his allies. But humanity was flawed. It was complicated. At times like these, emotions ran high and people were liable to make snap judgments, bad calls. This brought about mistrust and suspicion, and it was hard to decide where and when to place faith in someone. But now it seemed that he had to choose – one way or the other.

"There's a place – some campgrounds outside the city," he began, uncertain as to whether he needed to elaborate or not. "We can't stay here too long."

"Is your squad there?" asked Marcus, a little relieved that they were making some headway.

"My squad's missing."

"Dead?"

"_Missing_." repeated Velko.

"Was it them, then, who we heard on the tape?" asked Dom.

He nodded, electing not to speak.

"Okay." said Marcus, cutting in suddenly. Velko had given him enough to satisfy him for the time being. If he pressed the kid for more information, he was dead certain that this diplomatic conversation would come to a standstill. He had supposed that Velko had been decent enough to bring them this far, and even though Marcus suspected that there was more to him than met the eye – and to his story – he was beginning to believe that they weren't in any immediate danger. At least, not from Velko. And anyway, there were four of them, and one of him. "That's all we need to know." said Marcus, resting his lancer on his shoulder.

"Fair enough," said Velko, his features visibly relaxing. "You wanna keep going or what?"

* * *

They made their way into the brewery's basement, its musty smell deeper and stronger than on the floor above. Their boots clanged against the metal stairway, and from time to time they had to brush away lone wisps of dangling spider webs from their eyes. Dawn's light was pouring in through rectangular windows near the ceiling. A string of large barrel-like vats lined one side of the basement wall, while equipment consisting of computer terminals, gas cylinders, pressure gauges and a factory-like assembly belt stood up against the other.

Velko strode over to one of the vats and began to unfasten the latches on its side. Within the span of a minute he pulled open the large circular door to reveal an empty, hollow interior. The small, artificial cavern was dark, but enough light from outside allowed for Velko to find a hook of metal protruding from the vat's base. He tugged at it, yanking it upwards. He pulled out a little flashlight from the inside pocket of his jacket, and shone it down into the tunnel that was concealed by the trap door.

Marcus came over to his side. "How far down?" he asked, peering in, following the path of the flashlight.

"A jump like that would break your neck," stated Velko. "We're going to have to use the ladder. But first..." He motioned for the others to crowd into the barrel, which they all did. Cole, being the tallest of them all, had to bend his head to avoid any uncomfortable contact with the container's ceiling. Velko moved awkwardly past the others and shut the door from the inside. He paused momentarily, listening for the latch to click into place. When it did, he moved back towards the trap door, and placing the flashlight in between his teeth, he began to climb down – using the protruding wall rungs as footholds. One by one, the others followed suit.

At the bottom, the only source of light came from Velko's small torch. Ahead of them, the darkness seemed to extend into nowhere. The younger man extracted two foot-long rods, handing one to Marcus and the other to Baird – who stood close by. "Glow sticks." said Velko. "I wouldn't use them both up now, though. We still have a ways to go."

Baird bent his baton in half – allowing for the two chemical ingredients within to mix, thereby producing just enough light for them to make their way through the dim passage. "How long did you say this walk is gonna take?" he asked.

"Five, six hours at the most."

Cole groaned.

"Nothing to it, guys," declared Marcus. "Let's get moving."

* * *

The literal light at the end of the tunnel proved to be metaphorical in nature as well. Their somewhat slow, but steady, going had finally paid off. The glow ahead of them grew brighter as they drew nearer. Their eyes – having been accustomed to the darkness for several hours now – needed to be shielded from the outside glare. Each of them blinked slowly, curious to see what awaited them outdoors.

A large metallic grill closed the tunnel's far end, the spacing between the thick bars only small enough for a young child to fit through. Just as the four were beginning to wonder how they were going to overcome this final obstacle in their trek, Velko directed them to another protruding ladder to their right. As they ascended, Baird gave a quick glance to what lay beyond the metal frame, and saw waning sunlight filtering through green foliage.

When they finally had emerged from their solemn passageway, it seemed that they stood on the brink of a lustrous pine forest. Massive redwood trees reached upwards, the tops of which were invisible to their eyes. The sun was slowly sinking to the west, but the horizon was concealed from their position – the trees obscuring many a landmark. But, all the same, the scene was particularly alluring. Dappled sunlight played onto the forest floor, the beauty of which seemed to bring time to a standstill. There were moments when they had believed that such small havens had all but vanished from Sera's war-torn lands.

They were glad to have been proved wrong.

Velko climbed down a small embankment, as did the others. Looking back, they noticed that the tunnel had emerged through the base of a large hill. Marcus guessed that this hill was probably one of many – perhaps a mountain range lay beyond them – making this location an ideal one for a small encampment of survivors. If the Locust had tried to dig through to the surface here, they would have hit solid rock, and more likely than not, would have given up. _That is of course_, thought Marcus, _if they had thought to drill here in the first place_.

Velko, who had reached the bottom of the embankment, called out to his four companions. "You guys had better wait here. I'm going to have do some explaining before I let you in." And with that, he walked off between the large, reddish tree trunks and was soon hidden from view.

As soon as he had vanished, Baird spoke up. "Marcus, you want me to tail him?"

Marcus stood still, considering the offer. He decided against it. "Nah. If the kid's right – and there really _are_ more Locust now than humans – won't do much good to be slamming heads against each other."

"Yeah, but that's us, man," said Cole. "What if they don't see things the same way?"

"Then we leave. _Diplomatically_." stated Marcus firmly. "I don't want any itchy trigger fingers."

"Why do we even need to be here?" asked Baird. Fourteen hours ago, and amidst the dark, deserted streets of Elingrad, the decision made more sense. But now, their long trek had rendered them weary, and he hadn't seen much point to this journey.

"Because we're here to find out what happened to our team," explained Dom, seeing as how Marcus had grown tired of conversation. "And if their disappearance has anything to do with the Locust."

"Man, _'course_ this shit has Locust written all over it," spoke Cole, annoyed at the obvious nature of Dom's statement. "I just wanna know if those nasty Nexus freaks are still running around."

"Well, that's what I meant," said Dom with a heavy sigh. Tired of being on his feet for so long, he sat himself on the ground, leaning back with the aid of his arms. "Maybe Velko's friends can give us some leads."

"I don't think that dude _has_ friends," muttered Cole.

"Well, maybe he's got friends of a different sort," said Baird, tapping his temple lightly and grinning. "Like Peggy-Sue, Plato, Caesar, you know. Enough people in there for his shrink to retire happy and early."

"Knock it off," scowled Marcus. "We're here, so let's make the best of it."

"Yes, mom." responded Baird, his voice lacking the humour of his reply. He plucked off a pine cone from the nearest tree and twirled it slowly in his hands. "You really think he's the same guy from the squad back in Elingrad?"

"I do." said Dom.

"What about you, boss man?" asked Baird. "What's with the name confusion? Is he Vujacic or Velko? Or someone else entirely?"

"Baird, I'm not a goddamn database."

"But couldn't you ask Control?" he persisted.

"I never got the chance to," responded Marcus, increasingly irritated by the minute. He was certainly not going to contact Control during their tiresome footslog – especially while Velko had been with them all the way.

"How about now?" suggested Baird.

"Uh...I don't think so," said Dom, rising slowly to his feet as he pointed in the direction that Velko had left. Through the line of narrow and large tree trunks, they saw two forms approaching them. One much taller than the other.

As they both came into view, Marcus saw that Velko was accompanied by an older man; his grey hair cut short and neat, and his beard – in contrast – bristling and disordered. Marcus couldn't quite discern much of his concealed features, save for a pair of keen blue eyes that stood out from the rest of his countenance. They seemed to scrutinize the newcomers just as much as they were considering him. As he walked towards them, he carried himself well – old though he seemed – and there was no indication of a limp, no awkward shuffle, no nothing.

Velko and his more mature counterpart stopped short a few steps away from Delta. Velko nodded in their direction, and his companion stretched out a hand in greeting.

"Owens, at your service," he said, good-naturedly. "What can I do you for?" His voice was low and gruff, but the reception seemed genuine.

Marcus shook his hand, his eyes squinting. _Owens_. He'd heard the name before but couldn't quite place it. "Sergeant Fenix," he said, "And this is Delta Squad." He gestured towards his friends. "Baird, Cole and Dom."

"Sergeant Fenix, eh?" muttered Owens, his pensive eyes turning away briefly before focusing them back on to Marcus. "What were you boys doing out in Elingrad after dark?"

Not quite willing to give out too much information, and unsure of what Velko had revealed to the older gentleman, Marcus said, "I'm sure you already know,"

"Yeah, Sebastian here told me. But I'm asking you, aren't I?" he said, the corners of his mouth twisting upwards into a smile.

"Recon." said Marcus.

"What for?"

"Survivors."

"Sebastian's already told us about where you've come from, son." said Owens, quite unwilling to specifically refer to Orsa.

Marcus shot the younger man a look. He looked away; ashamed, unable to meet the Sergeant's gaze. And then, almost as if Owens could hear the unspoken chastisement and the silent contrition that followed, he spoke. "Don't worry. We aren't about to ransack your island. Wouldn't dream of it. Him and myself are the only people aware of it, anyway. And if you're going to have a talking-to with the boy here," he nodded at Velko, "you might think twice 'bout it if you knew what he's just gone through."

"That's the problem," said Marcus, his scowl still firmly in place. "We don't know jack-shit. And with all due respect, it's starting to piss us off."

"Well, that can be remedied," said Owens, letting out a breath and placing his calloused hands on his hips. "I'm sure we'll be a little more amiable after a good square meal. Why don't you boys follow me, and we'll have some grub."

* * *

As they walked towards the campgrounds, the sun was sinking rapidly behind them. Marcus felt a fresh kind of anger simmer within – stirring new feelings and stoking more flames. One of their priorities was to keep Orsa under wraps, and then this cocksure kid had to happen along and blurt it out to the nearest survivor. The way he had carried himself earlier – the caution, the monosyllabic answers – Marcus could have labeled Velko as anything but a squealer. It irritated him no end, and he felt like slapping himself for his naivety.

To make matters worse, this _Owens_, this elderly man who seemed amicable enough at the start, had attempted to try his truthfulness. He'd cross-examined both Velko's and Marcus' renditions of the truth, and naturally, having had known the younger man for a longer time than the Sergeant, he had obviously accepted his version over Marcus'. He felt tricked, and he didn't like it.

Still, Owens had said that the information regarding Orsa's existence hadn't been passed on. Marcus wanted to have difficulty believing that – if only to soothe his ego into thinking that it was right, and that most people _were _untrustworthy – but there was _something_ about Owens that was...well, respectable. And he didn't like that either.

They came up to a clearing, which was surrounded by four, sturdy log cabins. A small fire at the center of the clearing had just come to life, and one person – a woman no less than forty – knelt beside it, stoking the flames by adjusting the position of dried twigs and wood with a short stick. She looked up at the newcomers; one half of her countenance shrouded in the shadows, and the other half illuminated by the glow of the flourishing fire. Her face didn't betray any emotion, although she gave Owens a brief glance which he seemed to return with a barely perceptible smile. She then went back to her duty of tending to the small pyre.

"In here," spoke Owens, walking up the steps of a log cabin. He pushed open the door to reveal an abode so unlike what the four of them had witnessed a day ago in Elingrad, that their apprehensions began to visibly lessen; if only by a degree or so. The center of the room was occupied by a table, four chairs cloistered around it. A few kerosene lamps hung from the sloped ceiling; casting light on a nearby bookshelf and an aged wooden chest. Plants – crudely potted and tended to – lay near a lone windowsill, but for whatever reason, the limited foliage had managed to make the small room seem cozy and inviting.

"Company for dinner then, chief?" called out a voice from an inner room. A thin man stepped into view, wiping his hands on a piece of cloth. He studied Delta squad and on seeing their armour, weapons, and finally, their COG insignia, he flung the small piece of material onto the ground angrily. "_Gears_," he spat. "Well, might as well pack up and leave now. The minute any of you assholes step into town, Locust can't be far behind."

"Gentlemen," said Owens, "this is Pike. Our resident munitions expert."

Pike groaned, shaking his head from side to side. "Why you gotta bring them here, Owens? If you wanna cut your life short, don't be dragging the rest of us down with you!"

"They need a place for the night," explained Owens. "It's not safe out there for any self-respectable human, now is it?" He winked at Velko and grinned at Marcus. "Every man needs a place to lay down his hat – even if for a short while." At this, he gave Pike a meaningful look, which kept him silent – and even a little contrite, noted Marcus.

Velko, who had remained quiet all the while, suddenly decided to speak. "Well, if you don't mind – I've brought you all this far. I think I've done what I promised, and I need some shut-eye."

_Don't we all_, thought Dom, as he watched the lanky man leave the cabin. Eventful as the day had been, now that they were somewhat safe, exhaustion seemed to descend upon him swiftly. The only thing that plagued him more than his tiredness were the persistent growls in his stomach. It had been more than a day since they had eaten anything.

As if on cue, Owens spoke. "You boys must be hungry. We don't have enough chairs to go around this table, so if you don't mind, your dining experience is gonna be minimal." He gestured towards the floor where Pike had been sitting on earlier. Small pile of parts lay on one side of the room, each organized into its own category.

Baird, the more curious of the four, peered in, recognizing parts to rifle scopes, dismantled trigger mechanisms and the like. "Looks like you guys are getting ready to party," he commented.

Pike, seeming to take offense at the comment, or their presence, or both, frowned. "It's really none of your business." The man moved towards his work, and began to clear away his apparatus, placing them carefully into small wooden boxes.

Marcus, Dom, Cole and Baird walked awkwardly into the inner room, as Pike picked up his boxes and left. Owens sat down on the wooden floor and leaned against the wall. "Dinner will be here in a few," he said. "Go on – take a load off."

Cole got seated first, taking a look around the sparse, but snug, interior. He wasn't quite sure of where this visit would take them, but he was determined to make the best of it. "What's on the menu?" he asked, good-naturedly.

Owens shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. Sometimes I find that it's better that way. I mean, one week we had raccoons for three days straight. I don't know if you boys have ever tried raccoon...but I tell you, that's some tough meat. Then another week, we managed to catch some trout up by the reservoir. _Trout!_ Can you believe that? I haven't had trout in...forever."

"How long have you been here?" asked Marcus, as he removed his lancer from behind his back, and placed it beside him on the floor.

"Oh...some while now," responded Owens dismissively.

_So that's the way it's gonna be,_ said Marcus to himself. _This is a one-way inquiry_. If there really wasn't anything worth saying, and if Owens was not going to be forthcoming, then there was no need for Marcus to be a conversationalist of quality, now was there?

"Don't the Locust ever track you down?" queried Dom, either unaware or unperturbed by the older man's nonchalance towards giving ambiguous replies.

"We're pretty careful," said Owens. "We keep a low profile."

_Really, man_, thought Marcus. _How hard would it be to just answer a couple questions? Do you really think that we're going to hand you over to the Locust? That those grubs are even aware of the concept of a bounty? Aren't we both on the same team here?_ He grew irritated with each unanswered question. Owens' elusive nature was certainly not his most becoming characteristic. _And why should it be? It's the one thing you both have in common_, came a voice from within.

Marcus let off a low grunt that went by unheard by the rest of his companions. Part of him wanted to leap up and issue an order for them to leave this place; go back to Elingrad and actually begin to do what they came here to do. But another part of him prevented him from doing so – it kept him seated and still. Trite though the thought seemed, there was more to Owens than met the eye – as it had been with Velko. There were two histories, now, that needed to be illuminated upon. If he left immediately, there was the decent possibility that they could pass up the chance to find out what had happened to the lookout squad, and more importantly, to Nexus, and the Locust that had survived.

The door to the cabin creaked open, and a woman entered, followed closely behind by a man. She was the same person who had been tending to the fire outside, noticed Marcus. Her eyes gleamed by the light of the lamps, and her hands were occupied by two heaping trays of food. The man behind her; a good ten years or so younger than her, brought in a similar platter, its contents still steaming.

As they arranged the food on the floor before their guests, the woman carefully scrutinized each newcomer before speaking. "They say Gears get fed twice the amount that a normal civvie eats," she said. "So even though we're not quite the COG, we thought we'd try to at least hit close to the mark."

Dom stared at the food before him. There was a bowl full of steamed green beans, and another with boiled yams of some sort. A plate crammed with fried mushrooms followed next, and finally, a large roasted fowl that he couldn't identify. _Even by COG standards...this is a feast_, thought Dom. It then hit him that this meal probably comprised of what they ate in a span of one week. It seemed like they'd put a lot of effort into it, and the gesture was an unlikely one – they had sacrificed a considerable amount of their stores for Gears of the COG. Gears; of whom some of them couldn't speak of without distaste in their voice.

"I'm gonna catch hell for making this all up for you boys," she said, "and I hope you don't get the impression that we have five-star dining here all the time. But my son – he was a Gear. And whenever he got to come home during his leave..." at this, she cast her eyes down and her voice trailed off. She wiped her hands quickly on her trousers and looked back up again, smiling. "Well, it's just a small welcome. From me, anyway, if not from anyone else."

Dom caught her eye, reached out and touched her hand briefly. She reminded him so much of his own mother. "It's...it's a lot. We don't know what to say,"

"Thank you would be a start," came a curt response from the younger man standing beside her. He scowled at the four of them, obviously unhappy at their arrival...and at the warm welcome they were receiving.

"Thank you, then," said Dom, ignoring the tone of his remark. "I'm sure all of us will enjoy it. Very much." The others followed Dom's cue and thanked her in turn.

She nodded and turned to leave, beckoning for her sullen companion to follow. As the door closed, Owens passed the bowl of beans around. "Well, that was Mae. If a Locust came in here tired and worn, she'd feed him too."

"You sure about that?" asked Baird, already biting into his hot food.

Owens looked up thoughtfully and grinned. "Well, now that you mention it – maybe not."

* * *

They ate the rest of their meal in silence; interrupted only by curtailed requests that involved the passing around of food. Finally, when the last bit of dinner had been scraped off each metal plate by eager hands, Cole leaned back with a satisfied sigh and an even more convincing belch. The others followed in good time, eyelids growing heavier and limbs becoming enervated as the night wore on.

Owens had then directed them to another log cabin where they were allowed to sleep. They had to lie on crude makeshift mattresses, contrived from spongy moss and heather sewn into rough sackcloth. However, as meager as they seemed, the gesture was welcome and didn't go unappreciated by anyone. Sleep was a luxury very hard to come by as a Gear, and to be allowed to rest under a safe roof, to have something soft on which to lay their heads was, well, more than they could ask for. It was almost a treat.

Three hours passed into four. In the darkened cabin, Marcus stirred, eventually quite awake and unable to fall back asleep. For several moments he listened to the snorts and snores of his three friends; all obviously worn out by the events in Elingrad and by their long journey here. He lay there for what seemed like an hour, before grudgingly acquiescing to his body's reluctance to doze. He propped himself up, rose from his bed and walked out the cabin door.

The small fire that had burned in the clearing earlier that evening had long since been put out. The only evidence of its presence being charred kindling, and the scattering of grey soot and ash. He looked about him – all was silent and still, save for the sporadic croaks of bullfrogs not too far off. He rubbed his eyes, tired but somehow able to succumb to a temporary bout of insomnia.

For a split second, he felt the urge to contact Control, if only to hear a familiar voice again. But he thought better of it. After all, he had managed to do so only hours ago in the absence of Owens or any other members of this campground. He had informed Control that their second day on Sera was less eventful than their first, save for this chance meeting with some stranded who might have information on the missing squad. He played it casual – as if he didn't anticipate it amounting to much. He didn't quite lie, but then again, he didn't tell the truth either. It was strange for him to maintain even a small measure of secrecy – towards Hoffman especially. Different though their opinions might have been, and as painful as their history was, Marcus believed in putting aside petulant squabbles. He was bigger than grudges and the better man – despite the fact that he wasn't aware of it – and more often than not, he was candid. He faced facts for what they were, and called it as he saw it.

Then why did he bend the truth about this little colony?

_Maybe it's the food_, thought Marcus, as he mused on his full stomach. _Or maybe banding together is all we got left_.

He spotted a dim glow of light up ahead within the cabin they had dined in, and curious, he walked slowly towards in. Peering in through the window, he saw Owens, just as awake, writing in a book of some sort.

Owens' craned neck, his pensive gaze at the paper, brought Marcus' shrouded memories back into his consciousness with a jolt. He was taken by surprise by this sudden recognition and stood staring through the window at the older man for several moments.

_That's General Owens. General Nicholas Owens_. Often referred to as Quick Nick by his men, he was acclaimed for his efficiency in dispatching the enemy during stealth missions. In fact, stealth missions _were_ his specialty – it was rumoured that he had always been tasked with leading covert operations against Locust big-shots. A lot of the time he was successful. Leaderless Locust squadrons had become thoroughly disorganized and sloppy whenever a didactic superior was figuratively and literally stopped dead by Quick Nick. And then the Gears were swift to take advantage of the tizzy, decimating Locust vehicles and equipment, not to mention their squad numbers.

Marcus had listened to the rumours, heard the stories. Until one day several years ago, Quick Nick and his team failed to return from a mission up in Lima City. News of his past successes surged as many a soldier wondered at his absence, but following a time, narratives of his history simmered down to a bare sizzle. After a period of a year, the COG had officially labeled him as being KIA. A brief, but touching, obituary had been written about him in the _Jacinto Sentinel_, with a modest picture of the General presiding over a journal of some sort on his desk. He lacked the somewhat unkempt beard back then, but surely it was him sitting here, now, inside the old cabin.

And then, through some form of sixth sense or heightened skill of discernment, Owens looked up from his book. He rose slowly, pushing his chair away as he did so. "Who's there?" he asked, just loud enough to be heard.

"Just me," announced Marcus.

Owens walked towards the door and unbolted it, ushering the Sergeant inside. "Last thing we need is a Locust peeping-tom," muttered the older man.

Marcus chuckled. "Yeah, well, that would be the first."

"Can't sleep?" asked Owens.

The younger man stood staring at him for a few moments, deliberating on his recent revelation. Should he tell him that he knew? "No. Looks like you can't either." Marcus decided against it.

"Oh, I can sleep – don't get me wrong. It's just that I have to get some things down. Do a little cathartic soul searching before the sandman pays a visit." Owens sat down in his chair and directed Marcus to do the same.

"You keep a diary?" asked Marcus. Somehow, he couldn't quite see General Owens, this enigmatic figure, keeping a journal.

"Is that surprise I detect?"

_The old codger didn't miss a thing_. "Yeah. Just don't see you as – "

" – the giddy school-girl type," interrupted the General. "I assure you, I'm not. I suppose it's normal for people to misinterpret the simplicity of putting thought into words."

Marcus shrugged. "It's not strange. I know a couple people who do. Gears, I mean. I just don't see you getting too...well, emotional. Especially on paper."

"My emotions aren't the only thing that go in here, Sergeant Fenix. Sometimes I tally our supplies, organize some routine scouting – one of us has to keep things going. After all, once I kick the bucket, whoever takes over has to learn what and who they're taking charge of. And fast. Makes the transition quick. But sometimes," and at this, he heaved a sigh, "I'm just getting plain _old_."

Marcus gazed at the notebook. "You uh...keep a record of everything in there?"

Owens leaned back, his hands behind his head – fingers interlaced – and smiled. "You...and the COG's secret getaway are safe with me. Nothing of vital importance goes in here. Mostly, it's stored up here." He tapped the side of his head.

Marcus breathed out, the expression barely perceptible. Relieved, he felt like he could get on with this conversation devoid of much mistrust.

"What about you?" asked Owens. "You tell your brass about us?"

Marcus shook his head.

"Then we're of one mind, kid." responded the older man. "You want something to drink? I think I got some whiskey locked up in here. I told the others that it's some cheese that gets better with age. Keeps 'em the hell away from it."

A corner of the Sergeant's lips turned upwards into a slight smile. It was strange, being here, talking to this war veteran. The ones Marcus were familiar with grew hardened, roughened, especially as the mileage racked up. Contrary to popular opinion, they never seemed to mellow or soften. But Owens felt different. Almost as if he reserved callousness and the precipitation of his temper for another species entirely. He knew he had it in for Locusts. But Marcus couldn't quite postulate who else he abhorred. Was it the Gears or the COG? Maybe both? Because there was no way that a man with even a shred of decency would have allowed for others – especially his superiors – to think him dead. Not without an acceptable explanation, anyway.

"No, thanks," responded Marcus, refusing the offer.

"Ah well – maybe another time then. Smoke?" asked Owens, almost as if he was feeling the younger man out.

Marcus shook his head.

"Just as well," muttered the General. "Down to my last five anyway. Gotta make 'em last."

"So how did you come to be here?" queried Marcus, testing the waters. Maybe Owens was going to be effusive now, given that he had already opened up to a piece of paper.

"Well it wasn't the pay, I can tell you that," cracked Owens. He sighed. "Life takes you places. War takes you places. I mean you probably know – as well as I do – that things can shift, change without much of a push. If someone came up to me twenty years ago and told me where I'd be now, I'd tell him to get off the _fucking dope_. But yeah...I guess you could say that it was _circumstance_ that threw us together."

"Such as...?"

"Death. Grief. The usual suspects."

Marcus gave a small nod. "These people here – they mostly stranded?"

"A couple are civvies we picked up. A few stranded. We got one Gear too, believe it or not." replied Owens.

Marcus rose his eyebrows.

"Yeah, Grove. I suppose you could say he went AWOL. And then ended up with us,"

There were several members of the COG who could never tolerate the abbreviation and what it stood for. They needed every able-bodied man out there to retire their fears, shoulder their weapons, and pack it in with the Gears. The time for mulling-over had long since passed. The military had suffered casualty after casualty; not just in terms of numbers but in supplies too – food, weapons, vehicles – these were but a few necessities that determined their success. Everyone contributed _something_. It was all for one and one for all; abandoning your responsibility to the COG was construed as a betrayal. And it was this which separated the Gears and COG civilians from the stranded. It was a distinction of a better sort. It placed them on a higher pedestal than stranded scum.

But Marcus never quite saw it that way. After all, how could he? The pot would be talking to the kettle then, and he would have to don the garb of a charlatan.

There was really nothing he could say, one way or the other. "What about the civvies?" he inquired, changing the subject.

"We had around thirty of them two months ago. When Jacinto went down, people panicked. They got scattered. They happened to find us." explained Owens.

_Or did you happen to find them?_ wondered Marcus. "What happened to the rest?"

"We needed to move. The area we were in was getting too hot – first we had to fight off the occasional Locust scout, but then more reinforcements arrived – increasing daily." Owens seemed edgy, the recollection obviously agitated him. "I should've seen it coming, Fenix. But we delayed because we needed more weapons – and we'd heard of a base a short way from where we were situated. Ransacked or not, I felt like we had to go check it out, there was always something we could use," he looked away and at the window, staring at his reflection introspectively. "A few of us went out, leaving the others behind – the camp was well guarded, and we didn't think they'd hit us so soon. Well, I guess we were wrong..._I_ was wrong."

"How many?" questioned Marcus, referring to the number of Locust that had struck the encampment.

"I don't really know for sure. We think maybe...fifty, sixty. Everyone has their own estimate. Pike said it was fifty. Mae said it was about a hundred. But the exact tally doesn't matter, does it? I mean, the point is, there were enough of them to take down a good percentage of us."

"So you hauled ass and came out here?"

Owens rolled his pencil in between his thumb and forefinger. "We brought it down to a vote, son. Our next option was to move to Jacinto's outskirts. It wasn't too far away, and only a day-and-a-half-long trek. Or we could get to a place that was too thick for Locusts to dig through,"

"The mountain range..." remarked Marcus, realizing that his earlier guess had been correct. The solid granite foundations were a considerable deterrent for emergence holes.

"Exactly," said Owens. "Problem was that this place would mean a heck of a journey. Which it was. But it's what we all agreed we wanted, and I guess we were willing to sacrifice along the way."

"How many people did you lose?"

Owens went back to re-examining his pencil. "Do I really have to answer that?"

"No. No, you don't."

"Well, how about yourself?" Owens motioned towards the Sergeant. "I ain't gonna ask you about your mission, but there are things I'm curious about. How'd you come to enlist? Don't tell me you fell in love with the propaganda. Dalyell wasn't that charismatic, was he?"

Marcus scoffed. "Yeah. Right. He shot patriotism well and good into my heart. But seriously, my brothers left to join the COG – and I wanted to go with them." At this, the images of Carlos Santiago floated into view. Marcus could see him, as plain as the next guy, sitting alongside him at the Santiago household, eating dinner. Mr. and Mrs. Santiago sat at opposite heads of the table; Mr. Santiago asking his son to pass the hot sauce, Carlos jesting with him – telling him he'd ruin his liver. Then he saw himself running through the fields, trying desperately to reach the older, and brutally injured, Carlos in time. Through the earpiece, Carlos had said to him, _you take care of Dom. He's your brother too_. Marcus had told him to shut the hell up. _For fuck's sake, shoot me, Marcus, I'm not going to make it_.

And Carlos had made sure that Marcus wouldn't die for him.

"Yeah?" spoke Owens, bringing Marcus out of his dark contemplations. Owens was curious, if not a little surprised. "They here with you now?"

"One of them is," said Marcus quietly. _So is Carlos, but in a different way_, he thought.

"I see."

"It's just like you said. Death, grief – they bring people together." The comment seemed bitter, resentful. But his sharpness wasn't directed towards Owens. Marcus looked up suddenly, his eyes bright and piercing. "So what happened at Lima City, General?"

Owens sat there, a little too stunned to even gape. The pencil slipped from in between his fingers and rolled along the wooden table. Marcus arrested its momentum, preventing it from falling off the surface.

"_You know?_" spoke Owens, his voice a whisper.

"Didn't know until this evening."

"_Shit_," muttered Owens. "I hadn't counted on it,"

"Sorry to disappoint." stated Marcus. "Any reason for the secrecy?"

Owens massaged his temples, tired. "It was another life. More of a hypocritical one, I guess. There were certain..._things_ I found out about the COG. Ideas I couldn't wrap my mind around. Well, I didn't see eye to eye with many of our..._radical thinkers_...is probably a more tactful term for them. But somewhere along the line I figured that all the medals, the accolades, the pomp, don't really count for much. I mean, no one really gave a damn about what I thought. Had to roll with the punches there, so I went back to my duties. I just never figured that they would..." his voice ebbed.

"That they would _what_, General?" asked Marcus.

"Never mind," Owens shook his head, as if trying to recover from some sort of blow. "That's a story for another time."

"I'd like to hear it, though, one day."

"One day." consented the General.

"Fair enough," noted Marcus. He never liked to push. "What about Sebastian?" he asked, diverting the conversation again. "What's his story?"

Owens scratched the side of his head, a little relieved that Marcus had backed off so easily. Maybe the kid wasn't so bad after all. "Velko," he murmured, "now _Velko's_ a different kettle of fish entirely. Don't get me wrong – he's one of us – through and through. But it's changed him."

"War changes everyone, General. You said it yourself,"

Owens laughed knowingly, his tone a little grim. "Not this way."

"How so?"

"I've known Sebastian for a bit. Even before Jacinto went down. But when the COG stationed him at Elingrad, and when his squad disappeared..._shit happened_."

"What do you mean?" asked Marcus, leaning in closer.

"Now I can't tell you all of it, Fenix. That's for him to decide," cautioned Owens. "He just had to face something that I probably wouldn't wish on my worst enemy."

"What? He became a Locust errand-boy or something?" he cracked, in a poor attempt to alleviate the building tension.

"He came close to losing it. He just...ah…hell, he found his comrades. One of them actually. Mutilated."

"Could've been some damned wretches," suggested the Sergeant.

Owens shook his head. "Wretches have no sense of...order. They're nothing but rabid monsters – but sadism isn't in their nature. The body was mutilated. And I ain't seen no wretch do that kind of work."

Marcus' brows knitted together. "_Mutilated?_" he repeated, as if he hadn't heard Owens the first time.

"I mean goddamn _mutilated_, as in _vivisected_. _Cut open_. Do you need me to go on?"

"Uh...no," swallowed the younger man. If he'd heard this crap from somebody else, he would have allowed for the news to come in one ear and go out the other. He'd have dismissed it entirely. But this was someone who obviously took no pride in exaggeration.

"There were other...oddities. Their ears had bled – "

"Did you see the body?" cut in Marcus.

"Yeah. Unfortunately. Sebastian – he tried to bring him back, but the guy was stone-cold dead."

"What about the others?" Marcus could feel his hands growing cold.

"They're missing. Sebastian said something about the woman, something _specific_..." Owens paused, remembering, "...handled her less roughly than her friend. That's it. But then he said that it all went to hell, that they got _damn_ brutal. To her as well. And that there was something different about these Locust, and that it wasn't his fault that he couldn't save them all. You have to understand, Fenix, that whatever happened there at Elingrad traumatized him. He gives me bits and pieces – things I can _barely_ string together – before clamming up again. And then all I can get out of him are warnings; he just tells me to double our guard. And not to venture too far out of our camp."

"What the hell was he doing back in Elingrad, then?"

"He said that the COG would probably send out someone to check up on them. They hadn't reported in for days. I think he went back to leave you guys a message,"

Suddenly, Marcus remembered the tape, and the words in the notebook that had led to its discovery. Had Velko left it behind for them? If so, with all likelihood, he could have been the one who'd recorded it. Which meant that he would have to have been there while it happened.

Marcus closed his eyes. _Shit_.

He recalled the _beast barges_, the deeds that the Locusts had subjected their human prisoners to in the labour camps. He remembered Tai, and his mangled back. Maria, and her stitched up skin. But this was more than just weird – it sounded _goddamn depraved_. Locusts never bothered to maul their enemy for kicks; they would chainsaw, pump in bullet after bullet perhaps. But, sadly, that was what battle was about, there was nothing else to it – you win, or you die. This kind of maiming and torture on sight was too uncharacteristic of them.

_Locusts tactics have changed_, decided Marcus, _but now they seemed to be __**fucking evolving**_.

"You believe what he says?" queried Marcus. It was a question that demanded to be asked. But he dreaded the answer even before it could materialize.

"Yes."

"What have you decided to do about it?"

Owens closed his eyes and breathed out. "I want to ride this one out. But..."

"...But you can't," finished Marcus.

"No. We can't. We can fight the occasional Locust – hell, maybe even the occasional squad or three. But we don't know what else is out there. There are some places that we know are frequent surveillance spots for 'em. Every three days or so, we like to do a little recon. But our work there is minimal; sight and report kinda stuff. I don't always make it a habit of going out there personally – we have shifts, rounds. And I do try to make it a rule that if a situation gets too hot, we bail without question. There's no point in sticking our necks too far out. We try not to get too close."

"How about now?"

Owens massaged the back of his neck. "_Now?_ Now, I guess things are a little different. I was counting on going back there – check things out for myself."

"You mean, like an investigation," put forth Marcus.

"Yeah. Like an investigation. We could hit all our recon points in succession, over a period of…oh, I would say five consecutive nights. We can then compile our information back here, make some assessments and then see where we can go from there."

"Could you use a little company, General?" asked Marcus.

Owens stared at him for several moments, and then grinned. "You sure about that, Fenix? We're not exactly covert ops here."

"Is that so? Well, aren't you Quick Nick? Can't you take out a couple grubs clean and fast? If it comes to that, I mean."

The General laughed. "Don't try me, son," scolded Owens, good-naturedly. "My army days are as good as gone. But yeah, I suppose, if it comes to _that_...I could indeed."

* * *

There was not much to do during the day apart from some preparation for that night. Mae had been kind enough to give them a quick tour of the encampment, much to the distaste of the other inhabitants. They had maintained their distance from Delta Squad – any banter or niceties kept down to a bare minimum. The only thing that prevented Delta from being thrust out of their dwelling-place, the only reason they tolerated their presence was because of Owens acceptance of them. Marcus had also realized that the former General had never divulged many details to his companions regarding his past life with the COG. Not out of fear that his comrades would turn their backs on him, but more as a symbol that _he_ had turned his back on the COG.

But, like the General had said, that was a story for another day.

Small and as insignificant as the campgrounds seemed – Owens had seen to it that it was guarded well. They religiously patrolled its perimeter in groups with the aid of two coon hounds; dogs who they had trained to recognize the Locust scent. In addition to the patrols, and as the General had told Marcus, routine surveillance teams would scout specific locations within the cities that surrounded their safe haven – if anything big was about to go down, they needed to know. Their survival depended on it.

Owens had announced that he would lead a small patrol up into Tyro City – a few miles away from Elingrad. It was considerably smaller than its neighbour, but at a higher elevation – it was the ideal eagle's eyrie. It was often referred to as the Watchtower – and in the days preceding the Pendulum Wars, the view from Tyro City's summit had been spectacular. But now its aesthetic uses had all but disappeared, and it served more of a military purpose, existing as the consummate surveillance point.

But Owens wasn't going to Tyro City for the view – and he wasn't making the journey to meet the Locust in battle either. This seemed a simple scouting mission – and that's how he was going to play it. Neither was it band camp. It would do them no good to drag a large group along. He'd wanted five people; no more, no less. Owens had chosen Grove, an ex-Gear, and a solid man – both in the sense of virtue and dependability – to accompany him. If tempers in the fray grew thick and stifling, he was the man you'd want on your team. He had also chosen Velko, more out of a need for knowledge; if the kid had seen this new danger once, then it would be apt to use him as well. Limited though his expertise may have been, especially when it came to what he had revealed to Owens, it was definitely more than what any of them had to offer. And lastly, as a courtesy to Marcus, Owens had asked the Sergeant if there was anyone else he'd want to bring along. Much to Cole's disappointment, and to Baird's delight, Marcus predictably appointed Dom as being up for the task.

They wasted no time in assigning weapons, roles and tactics to each individual. And there was no doubt that Owens was its forerunner; something that Marcus had good-naturedly relinquished to. After all, they were on his turf and this was his idea. Not to mention that his knowledge of Tyro City probably preceded that of the Sergeant's.

The general had announced that they would leave in three hours. Any loose ends that needed tying up were to be done here and now.

* * *

"Dom, you got everything?" asked Marcus, as he stepped inside a small cabin. Glancing around, he had noticed that Cole and Baird were missing. "Where are those two?"

"Mingling." stated Dom. "You know Cole – he's his own PR campaign. And Baird's probably out there collecting souvenirs to put in his scrapbook."

Marcus nodded. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah," answered Dom, as he attached his ammunition clips to his belt. "Everything except JACK, though."

"Owens doesn't want JACK along."

Dom looked up uncertainly. He didn't quite know if this was a good or a bad thing. "Uh...he say why?"

Marcus scratched his face, his fingers rustling against the two-day's growth of stubble. "Not really,"

"Come on man," chuckled Dom, "there are times when you can't lie for _shit_,"

"He just doesn't want JACK along,"

"You trust him? And you're okay with that...?"

_Yeah_, thought Marcus, _because he's one of us. He's General-fucking-Owens, and there's no way in hell he's gonna let us down. But – as much as I wanna tell you that, man – I can't – gave him my word_. "Yeah. I'm okay with that."

Dom paused, studying his companion, his brother. Then he resumed the activity of storing his ammunition clips. "Well, if it's good enough for you, man...it's good enough for me. Just make sure you know what you're doing."

_So do I_.

* * *

Velko moved about the small room that he shared with Pike. He walked over to his own mattress, and pulled out a small, yellowed photograph from underneath it. He gazed at it long and hard; as if he aimed to brand the images into his mind. In the picture, he looked happy – his grin broad – all thirty-two pearly whites shining into the camera. The others looked just as delighted; there was Tom, his face speckled with dirt and mud, giving the photographer the thumbs-up. Mike had a faux cigar stuck in between his teeth. God only knew what that shit was made of, and what possessed his friend to hold onto it with his mouth...but Mike was photogenic, and at times, pretty theatrical. And he had his moments. _But for a skinny guy, he really couldn't pull off the Mafioso look_, thought Velko.

And then there was Susan – who they all took to calling Little Susie. She was short and petite, but boy, did she ever pack a punch. Just like his Boltok pistol, mused Velko, a small smile creeping across his face. She didn't take sass from anyone, but she wasn't a prude, and she knew when to let loose. _Must've been the only girl in a family of boys_. There was no other way to explain how perfectly she had fit in with them.

As his eyes wandered over the picture, he couldn't find it in himself to connect his squad to what he had seen so many days ago. Little Susie's screams came too vividly to him, however, and he dissociated her smiling face in the photograph from the woman he had witnessed wailing out in terror. It was her, but then again, it wasn't.

_Hang in there kid_, he told himself, _I'm coming to get you_. _One way or another, I'll find out where you are and I'm coming to get you_.

"Mae said that you were going with them," spoke a voice from the doorway.

Placing the photograph quickly in the front pocket of his shirt, he turned his attention to the adolescent teen in the opening. She walked in tentatively, as if she was unsure that he would instruct her to leave. But she didn't ask for permission, recognizing that he had more pressing matters on his mind.

"Yeah," said Velko. He pulled out a rolled-up wad of leather from his pants pocket – about an inch wide – and began to unwind the long strip. He then busied himself with wrapping it around his forearm.

"You're not due for patrol till next week." she said quietly. "So why do you have to go?"

"Boss's orders."

She smiled knowingly. "You don't listen to anyone," her smile vanished suddenly, as if realizing something, and this left her eyes anxious, "You're going because you want to go."

"Janey, I don't have much of a choice," spoke Velko, a trifle exasperated. "If it means finding out anything about Mike and Susan, then yeah...I wanna go."

She thrust her hands deep in her pockets. "Mike's dead, and Susan probably is too, you know."

Velko threw the young girl a spiteful look. _Back off and shut up_. "What the hell do _you_ know about it?"

And then, on seeing her mortified face, he shut his eyes and sighed. "Ah jeez...hell, I didn't mean what I said," He walked up to her and placed an awkward hand on her shoulder. "I didn't mean it."

"Of course you did," she said, looking back up at him in resentment. "When people say that – _that's_ when they mean it the most." She roughly wiped away the brimming tears. "I need a fucking smoke."

Velko mused at the girl's attempt at maturity. Or, at least, _her _perspective on maturity. "Hey, keep your mouth clean. Your mother wouldn't like it."

"She's not around to hear me – so who gives a damn?!" she yelled, gesturing emphatically. "And quit that guardian angel crap, I've heard it so much from Mae that I'm gonna hurl. No one's watching out for _nobody_ down here."

"I'm not Mae. And I can't really tell you to believe in something I don't believe in, either."

"You don't believe in anything, Sebastian. You're a cold-hearted asshole." she said, this time more quietly.

"Say what you want," he muttered, "if that was your mom out there, you'd have done the same."

Janey tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, recovering from her outburst. Velko never spoke to her like a child. If she asked, he would tell. And more importantly, he never seemed to lie. If she ventured into waters that made him sour, he'd tell her to shut it, and would then change the subject. He wasn't exactly patronizing, and he never took to much horseplay, but then again, he wasn't quite the same person she suspected he used to be. There was more to it than that, and well, she liked him for it.

"I wish I'd died, you know. Instead of her," she said, her voice a monotone. "The people who die – _they're_ the lucky ones. They leave us behind to mourn them, and to clean up the fucking messes they made in the first place."

_Has war aged us all like this?_ wondered Velko, as he stared at the fifteen-year-old before him. _Are we all going to end up as ancient souls, only capable of finding joy in things that have long since passed?_

"Look, kid," began Velko, "you're gonna drive yourself nuts thinking like that. What did I tell you?"

She scowled at him, but spoke, her words slightly mumbled. "One day at a time,"

Velko nodded. Now it was time to change the subject. "Radio working alright for you?" he asked.

"Yeah," she conceded to his change in tone. "You did a great job. Pike asked me how the hell I got it to work. He thinks I'm tech material now too. I think he's looking for an apprentice," Janey rolled her eyes.

He chuckled. "Is that so? What did you tell him?"

"Well, I didn't tell him about _you_, if that's what you mean." She drew a theatrical X on her chest, before batting her eyelids ostentatiously at him. "Cross my heart and hope to die before I tell a lie, soldier."

He grinned. "Alright, alright. I get it." Velko looked over his shoulder and through the doorway. Owens and Marcus had begun to exit the cabin across from his. "Look, I better go."

"Wait," she said, serious again. "You don't have any body armour. Take Grove's. He won't mind,"

"He's gonna need it more than I do," stated Velko, pointing to his sternum, "Remember?"

"You could still die."

"Well, I'll be the last to go – I can tell you that. And it isn't in my plans, anyway."

"Are you so certain of everything?" she asked.

"Nope. Just this."

"If you...if you guys go out there and no one comes back, what happens? Will the Locust find us then?"

"No. It won't come to that. I won't let it." said Velko, matter-of-factly. And then, before she could open her mouth, he cut her off. "And yeah, I know. That's _two_ things now that I'm dead certain of."

He paused momentarily in the doorway, looking back over at her; his silhouette almost ghostly. "Take care of yourself till I get back."

"Only if you promise to come back," she murmured.

"How could I not?"

Velko walked away from the cabin, shouldering his two weapons in a sling across his back. The others had gathered at the encampment's fringe, ready to be escorted out by Pike and his two dogs. Mae, who had followed Velko, approached him from behind and put her hand on his shoulder, making him stop.

"That kid loves you, Sebastian," she said, concern in her eyes.

"It's just a crush," he muttered, "hormones and stuff. You know. She'll get over it."

Mae shook her head. "No, I mean – whatever place she holds for you in her heart – it's big. After all, she's just a child. But she can't take another loss."

"What're you saying?"

"I'm saying: _be careful_. There's more than just your missing friends you're fighting for now."

Velko gave her a steady and pensive look before walking away.

* * *

**Two hours later**

The makeshift APC rumbled through the darkened streets, making sporadic and sudden turns. From time to time, Marcus would glance at Owens, who was the only one who had managed to catch a few winks on the rattling vehicle. He had somehow strapped himself crudely to his seat with the aid of some nylon cord. Simple though his method was, it was effective. Throughout the bumpy ride, Owens shifting about was limited to his own personal space.

The others weren't as fortunate.

The passengers within jostled inadvertently against one another, each issuing the other mumbled apologies as they did so. Dom shut his eyes in pain as the vehicle came to a sudden halt, almost flinging the muscular Grove onto him. Though Dom wasn't quite smothered, Grove had unintentionally managed to shove the butt of his weapon into Dom's exposed forearm.

Grove gave Dom a conciliatory look, and turned angrily to the driver's section of the APC. "Velko! What the hell, man? Gimme the damn wheel if you can't handle yourself!"

Owens, who appeared to be truly asleep, opened his eyes a crack before closing them again. "Leave him alone. You don't know this road."

"But seriously," protested Grove, "the guy's driving like he's testing the brakes every five seconds! What the hell is he worried about hitting – _a goddamn rabbit?!_"

"He's keeping an eye out for IEDs, Grove." muttered Owens. "We can still get pulverized in this heap if we hit one."

Grove shook his head, but kept quiet, running his hands through his brown hair. He looked at Marcus and Dom in turn. "You guys don't have to put up with that kinda half-assed driving, do you?"

Dom glanced at Marcus and then back to Grove. A slight grin formed on his lips. "Well...I couldn't exactly say that..."

Marcus said nothing, and stared at the vehicle's bare interior instead.

Grove, who had missed the subtle yet friendly accusation, leaned back tentatively in his seat. "Man, we need to get a new set of wheels. The struts on this thing are _shot_."

"Where'd you get this one anyway?" asked Dom.

"We found it flipped over somewhere near Timgad. Poor guy who was driving the damn thing was dead. His squad wasn't in it either."

"How did you haul it back to camp?"

"We didn't – we drove it. We managed to jump-start the battery thanks to Pike. He may be bad with his mouth, but he's great with his hands, I can tell you that," explained Grove.

Dom laughed, Baird's own idiosyncrasies popping into his mind. "You don't say. Reminds me of someone," he muttered. "You know who I'm talking about, Marcus?"

Marcus grunted.

"Hey, Velko!" called out Grove again, apparently not quite thrilled at having to endure so cramped a ride and for so long a time. "Are we there yet?"

Suddenly, the APC came to another dramatic halt. But instead of resuming its forward momentum, sounds of Velko shuffling in the front compartment could be heard, when he unexpectedly emerged from its small opening. He walked deliberately up to Grove, and then grabbed the bigger man by the scruff of his collar, lifting him clearly off his seat.

"You give your fucking phobias a rest, _compadre_, or you get the _hell_ out of this APC and leg it all the way to Tyro, you got that?" Velko shoved him roughly back into his seat and scowled. He moved back into the driver's niche and within seconds, the engine gunned to life again.

Marcus studied Grove as the vehicle began to move. He fussed with his collar for a few moments, his face looking genuinely surprised. He then caught the Sergeant staring at him and shrugged. "Strong kid. Must be the vitamins."

The APC rolled on into the night.

* * *

Owens exited the vehicle, just after it had turned through several side streets. He walked in front of it, from where Velko had a clear view of him, and with both hands, he directed the large transport into a suitable, and quite hidden, makeshift parking spot.

While the others jumped out the back, Owens pulled out a large piece of paper which was creased and quite worn from repeated foldings. He spread it open as best he could against a wall, and stared at the crudely drawn blueprints of a building with the aid of a small flashlight. He had gone over it with his group earlier that day, but it never hurt to give it another once-over. The plans displayed what he and some others had gathered regarding the structure and architecture of an abandoned police department; a neglected building that the Locust had appeared to have chosen as a frequent stop during their routine patrols.

Owens had been inside twice with Velko, when they had decided to canvass the building for working and tractable equipment such as radios, bullet-proof vests and communication devices. But then, they had only entered during daylight and had spent as little time there as possible.

This was going to be much trickier.

Now they weren't searching for any articles of use, but for the Locust themselves. And this presented a much bigger danger. There was hardly ever an instant where a Locust would travel alone; they found strength in packs. And often, these numbers were inconsistent. It was hard to decide how many there would be at any given time. Which gave them the advantage.

They would have to play that same game now.

Grove had walked over to Owens' side, as the others followed suit.

"We have to walk from here – we've done it before," spoke Owens. "The only difference is that, like we talked about, we're gonna have to get in a little closer. And gentlemen, we can't really afford to make any mistakes tonight. I want everyone to check their communicators. I can't keep tabs on one of you if I don't know where you are. If yours isn't working, then you're gonna have to sit this one out. End of story.

Grove and I gonna have to go in the side entrance – do a little surveillance beforehand though," Owens pointed to their point of entry on the map. "We'll find a good spot to conceal ourselves once we're in. I want you – Marcus, Dom – to take the right flank. You're going to have an advantage from the rooftop of the building across the street. Velko, you're covering the left flank."

"We went through all of this before," said Grove, eager to get to it.

Owens shot him a grim look. "We're not gonna have the luxury of second chances," he said slowly. "Now. If all your watches are synchronized, we can expect a patrol thirty minutes from now. Ten minutes trek, twenty minutes to organize. You three watch our sides. Now these Locust are doing routine patrols, they typically won't loiter longer than an hour. We stay hidden, and we don't expose our locations unless the situation goes nuclear, you got that? Once they've left, if there's anything in the building worth investigating, we take note of it, but we do _not_ conduct a damn expedition tonight. This is recon. Not an offensive. With any luck, this whole thing will be over in a few hours. You boys got that?"

Everyone consented, nodding.

* * *

**Fifteen minutes later**

Dom positioned his sniper rifle on the edge of the rooftop, glancing through the scope at the building that stood across from them. He could see the main entryway, its interior darkened and desolate. He took a small wad of chewing gum from his front pocket and stuck it into his mouth.

He looked back at Marcus just as large, fat drops of rain began to fall about them. The water blackened the brick floor in splotches, soaking into their clothes as the liquid globules fell faster and faster.

"_Dammit_," muttered Dom, peering through his rifle again. "Gonna make it hard to get a good target now..."

"Maybe it won't come to that." said Marcus, as he wiped the water from his face, atypically optimistic.

Dom seemed unconvinced. "Look, this rain's not gonna let up in fifteen minutes. And that's time enough for everything to get shot to hell. Maybe we should think about calling this off,"

"_No time for regrets, Corporal_," came Owens' voice through the earpiece. "_It's just a little rain. And we don't plan on doing much fighting, remember? Or do you have some plans of your own? This ain't high noon, you know,_"

Dom frowned as Marcus smiled. Owens was having a joke at Dom's expense. _Nothing like a little levity for so dark a night_, mused Marcus.

"_Man, he's on the jazz again. No one can stop him when he's on the freakin' jazz_," said Grove. It sounded as if he were grinning.

"What the hell are you talking about?" asked Dom, growing antsy and frustrated all at the same time.

Grove chuckled, the sound coming off a little distorted through the earpiece. "_You mean you don't know about the jazz? Hoo boy._"

"_Allow me to elaborate_," Velko's voice entered the conversation, as if reciting text from a book. "_The fear one feels while staring death in the face can be quite paralyzing. But the scenario itself is very deceptive, and can have several repercussions. The most advantageous one by far, is the acceptance of one's destiny, in this case – death of self. The conquering of this fear results in a settling-in of peace, where thereafter, one becomes empowered by this knowledge and hitherto experiences a feeling akin to nothing else, often referred to as...the jazz._"

"_Taught him everything he knows,_" Owens laugh resonated through their earpieces.

"_Poetic little fellow, ain't he?_ _Damned vitamins_," chimed in Grove.

Dom relented, smiling. "Okay, okay. I get it. I'm cool."

"_You guys all set up?_" questioned Owens, after having gotten the laughter out of himself.

"We're good," replied Marcus. "How about you two?"

"_We're cleaning out the ventilation ducts," muttered Grove. "Hard to find good help these days.._."

"_Velko?_" came Owens' voice again.

"_Oh, just swell. I'm in some fucking dumpster about to drown. I need to find a better spot_,"

"_Well, hurry it up. Find someplace to get situated and then __**stay there**_," ordered Owens. "_You're not trying on women's lingerie so don't be getting so fussy_."

"_Yeah, yeah. Give me five. Velko out_."

* * *

The patrol was ten minutes behind schedule, but Marcus supposed that they had arrived somewhat on time. Through the rifle's scope that Dom had permitted Marcus to gaze through, he saw about five Locust heading in the direction of the abandoned building. The thin, tall form characteristic of a Kantus led their ranks, with three drones and what appeared to be one grenadier, taking the rear guard. The Kantus glanced upwards every now and then, looking about himself.

_Can he sense us?_ wondered Marcus.

"We've got eyes," spoke Marcus into his communicator, addressing Owens and Grove. "I count five Locust down here – three drones and...one Kantus plus one grenadier."

The Locust strode towards the main entrance of the building, seemingly eager to get out of the pounding water. The three drones remained underneath the entryway's overhang, while their leader and grenadier proceeded inwards.

Marcus went on. "Got a Kantus and grenadier heading inside."

"_Roger that_." acknowledged Owens. "_Keep the line clean_," he issued, instructing the cessation of all chatter unless called for otherwise.

One minute passed into ten without much incident. Dom began to shift his weight, allowing the blood flow to pass properly into his already-numbed right thigh. To add to their discomfiture, the rain hadn't eased up much either.

"You want me to take over?" asked Marcus.

Dom gratefully accepted, and just as the pair exchanged positions, Marcus suddenly crouched down low, emphatically gesturing for his partner to do the same.

Down the opposite side of the road from where the earlier patrol had arrived, came a second band of Locust. In the haze of the rain and waning moonlight, it was difficult to discern who the group was comprised of. Using the sniper scope to zoom in only helped a little. Marcus counted one boomer, two or three drones, and two...

"Who the hell is that...?" he murmured.

Dom looked at him from his crouched position. _What is it?_ he seemed to ask.

Marcus handed Dom the rifle. Dom scrutinized the small assemblage. "Uh...we might have a prisoner detail here…"

_Oh fuck_, thought Marcus. He spoke into his earpiece. "We got another patrol heading over from the south. Looks to be handling some valuable cargo,"

Owens recognized that in this in situation, _valuable cargo_ referred to human beings. "_How many prisoners?_" his voice sounded tense.

Marcus mouthed to Dom, _how many?_ Dom held up two fingers before resuming his observations.

"Two," repeated Marcus.

"_Can you get any closer?_" issued Velko's voice. Apparently the anxiety was contagious. "_What do they look like?_"

"We don't know. This rain's pouring down heavy." replied Marcus. "Looks like their headed toward the east entrance too."

"Marcus," began Dom, clearly agitated. "Patrols don't take prisoners."

"_I know_. This isn't your average patrol."

"_Alright guys. We're not getting any closer than this. We're not compromising our positions. You hear that, Velko? I don't want any heroics out of you. You could get us all killed_," directed Owens.

There was silence.

"_Velko?_" Owens called out again. "_Do you hear me?_"

"_Yeah..._" came out a quiet voice. "_I copy_."

"_Good. Observe and report_."

"Group two's standing at the entrance. They got some kinda conversation going with those three drones," described Dom. "Looks like – "

And then, quite suddenly, a painful screech reached out from nowhere, traveling upwards into their minds, reverberating across their eardrums. It slashed piercingly through the buzz of the rain, bringing everybody's hands up protectively to their ears. Dom swooned, feeling tremendous pain – not just from the brutal noise itself, but from a strong feeling of loss – his loss of Maria. It seemed all too visceral now, as if the pain morphing into anger was ripping him apart from within.

Marcus had crawled away from the ledge, sticking his fingers further into his ears to drown out the noise. He wanted to talk to Owens, and he tried to bring his earpiece closer to his mouth but he couldn't do it without removing his fingers. He felt troubled, anxious. His emotions a crescendo. All the feelings of his mother's disappearance so many years ago flooded into him violently – his father's deception; his robotic self impervious to emotion, his inability to love his only son.

Through the tormenting wails, Marcus heard a voice. It seemed human – but it sounded angelic in comparison to the macabre squalls.

"_Oh shit, oh shit..._" It was Velko. Marcus would be relieved only if this damned torture would end. "_Don't listen to it guys_," Velko seemed to be saying encouragingly, "_Hands over your ears, don't listen, don't listen_,"

Dom groaned softly, doing all he could from yelling out in pain. Through the corners of his eyes, he could see the Locust below mimicking their actions, as if they were being similarly tormented. It mattered little to Dom at the moment. Stopping the noise was all that counted.

Then, just as soon as it had begun, it ended. It was so abrupt that for several seconds, they all had imagined that the noise was continuing to perpetuate – so loud was the ringing in their ears. With a deep breath and grimace, Marcus crawled to Dom's side, and peered over the ledge, wondering if he was composed enough to make sense of what he could see. The rain was loud and thick – visibility was poor, and for a moment, he felt frustrated and angry at the veils of water. Then Dom handed Marcus the sniper that he had dropped, and Marcus grabbed it, feeling disoriented and foolish.

The Kantus had emerged from within the building down, and he stood facing one of the human prisoners. The captive was tall – taller even than the thin Locust standing before him. _But he sure has guts_, realized Marcus, to face his enemy un-armoured and unarmed. In fact, his resilience seemed to daunt even the Kantus, who had –

_That's not a fucking prisoner_, rang Marcus' voice in his head. _That's not even a fucking Locust_.

Marcus' expression was enough for Dom to gaze in that same direction, despite the downpour. Marcus could feel his friend's thoughts echo his own. _What is it? What do you see?_

"_Guys!_" came Owens' softened cry over their communicators. "_You all okay out there?_"

The voice jolted Marcus back into the moment. "Yeah. Dom and I are fine."

"_Velko?_" called out Owens.

"_Yeah...I'm good. I'm good_." returned Velko.

"_Okay_. _What the hell was that?_" demanded Owens.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

Marcus heard Owens breathe out. "_What else do you see?_"

"Just one prisoner," began Marcus, "and uh...something else. Someone else."

"_What? Is it human or Locust, Sergeant?_" asked Owens. He sounded frustrated. Obviously, this wasn't in anybody's game plan.

"I don't know." replied Marcus.

Through the slight static, Marcus thought that he heard Grove swear. He swallowed. "Gotta be some kind of sonic device. But it seems to bug 'em too. So there's a good chance that they can't use it near themselves either,"

"_Okay. Good. Let's keep our positions for now. We're outmanned. If we have to move, we need to take out that device. Fenix, gimme a description_." issued Owens.

"I can't see the fucking thing," growled Marcus. And how did Owens expect him to in this blasted rain?

"_Who has the device?_"

"Damned if I know," Marcus muttered.

"_What the hell do we know?_" came Grove's voice, stymied. _And who could blame him? _

"_Let's take it easy, boys. One thing at a time_," Owens tone had metamorphosized into something steadier, calmer. The transition seemed flawless. As if he had done this many times before. "_If we don't know what we're seeing down there – if it isn't human, then it's Locust. We're gonna have to play it like that. Is that clear?_"

"Copy." responded Marcus. That was good enough for him – the being down below reeked of everything that was alien, inhuman.

"_Gimme a description of the other guy – the prisoner_," ordered Owens.

"Definitely human," described Marcus, feeling the necessity to emphasize the observation – especially now. "That's all I can garner from here."

"_What are our friends doing outside now?_"

The Kantus seemed to be conversing with the Locust holding their captive; its back turned on its elevated counterpart. "Talking. I think." _What about the prisoner?_ pondered Marcus. _Was Owens going to leave him to his fate?_

"We're not gonna intervene," concluded Owens.

_Well, that answers that_, thought Marcus.

"_What?!_" Velko's tone reverberated across their communicators. It sounded incredulous, and a little angry.

"_We are going to stay down_," hissed Owens, who seemed to have anticipated this reaction. "_We don't know squat about what's going on out there. Especially now. We can't handle all of them like this_,"

"_I can set up an ambush –_ " persisted Velko.

"_Ambush – my ass. Velko, if you so much as move an inch from where you are, I'll mail you to the Locust with a fucking thank-you note attached to your goddamn neck_."

"What's our next move?" queried Marcus, after a considerably tense silence.

"_We wait_."

* * *

**Ten minutes later**

The rain had eased up somewhat, and Dom's view through his scope was noticeably more comfortable on his eyes. They had played the waiting game for what had seemed like an hour, but then his watch had irritatingly reminded him that only a couple minutes had ticked by. Finally, just when he imagined that he could take no more of this torturous intermission, the Locust seemed to have moved apart from one another – the first group separating from the second. The Kantus stepped back out into the rain, his underlings falling back into their original positions. Dom waited for several moments for the second band to do the same, but they stood beneath the building's overhang, watching their compatriots walk away into the night.

"They're breaking up," mumbled Marcus, squinting through the rain. The weather's tenacity had slackened, even allowing for Marcus to discern some things without the aid of the sniper rifle. Some things only, though, _not_ everything. "Prisoner?" he asked, giving Dom a sidelong glance.

"They're with group number two. Moving indoors now...Owens, do you copy?"

"_Copy that, Dom_," began Owens. "_How many?_"

"Four Locust plus one prisoner."

"_What about their...friend?_" Owens said, slowly.

"Heading inside too," Dom responded. He watched the grainy, bare back of a Locust drone walk indoors and out of sight. "The last of them just went in. They're out of my scope now. The ball's in your court."

"_Roger that_."

After several minutes, the buzz of static issued forth from their earpieces, followed by Owens' voice. "_Our boomer just walked by_." His delivery sounded muffled, as if he had covered his earpiece. Then it was clear again. "_Grove said the boomer's headed to the adjoining room. He's got one drone with him_."

That left one drone, one prisoner and one oversized Locust. "And the others?" asked Marcus.

"_No sign_."

"_Great_," muttered Velko.

"Looks like we're gonna have to wait this one out too," surmised Dom. He removed the now-tasteless ball of chewing gum from his mouth and tossed it aside, irritated. "Get ready for a long night."

And then, unexpectedly, "_Maybe not_," Owens spoke. "_Velko. You want a chance to stretch your legs?_"

"_Fuck, yes_," replied the younger man immediately. He sounded tense, but simultaneously hopeful.

"_Fenix?_" queried Owens again.

The Sergeant wasn't as optimistic. "What have you got in mind?"

"_A small rescue_,"

_Ah, hell_. "Rescues are never small," groused Marcus.

"_This one will be. I want Dom to remain at his position – keep cover on our east entrance. Grove will get the west exit; taking over Velko's position. Marcus, I want you and Velko to sweep the first floor. You'll meet at the cafeteria – I don't think we saw any Locust headed in that direction. We're not here to start a gunfight, though, got that? Find the prisoner's location, extract him, eliminate any threats in your way. Head towards the Watchtower, like we arranged. Grove, Dom and myself will get your back_. _We'll meet you there in the APC_."

"What about the sonic device?"

"_Simple. If you see it, take it out_."

The plan sounded far too easy. But that's how all the hard ones were anyway. "You sure you wanna risk this?" asked Marcus. _You said you didn't want to stick your neck too far out, General, but you're painting a neon target on all our asses_.

"_I'm not risking anything, Fenix. You guys are. I asked you if you wanted a chance to rescue that poor bastard, and you said yes_," elaborated Owens.

_Velko said yes, not me_, thought Marcus.

Owens continued. "_And so, I'm sending the pair of you to come in and grab him. If you can't get the job done in thirty minutes, we recon back at the Watchtower – prisoner or no prisoner – and we leave Tyro. That's all there is to it_."

Marcus lowered his head and grinned. The sly bastard. He cared, he really did. Although he was loathe to admit it at times. This being one of those occasions. Thirty minutes was plenty enough for the situation to explode. Thirty minutes was plenty enough for the five of them to be found out, and to join the ranks of prisoners alongside the poor bloke they were trying to rescue. And, heaven forbid that should happen; it would only be a matter of time before they found Owens' encampment. And the others. But Owens seemed willing to chance it all, just to save one human life.

_This was a hell of a plan_. Marcus was beginning to feel the jazz.

* * *

**Ten minutes later**

The rain came to a stop just as he entered the building, its droning sound replaced by the _pitter patter_ of intermittent drops of water. _Figures_, thought Marcus grumpily. He shook his head. _No time for complaints now_.

He brought up the image of the building's layout to mind, remembering that the cafeteria was towards the north side. He held his lancer pointedly before him, sweeping blind corners and one barren room for potential threats. There were three exits in the empty lobby of the ex-police department, and he took the right one. A lengthy corridor loomed before him – old offices lying on either side of the hallway. _Great. I can get jumped every which way now_. _This is gonna be some grand lark, to be sure_. Nothing for it, he realized, as he emerged into the passageway. His booted feet fell softly on the linoleum, making little sound.

He passed the first room, his lancer following his line of sight. There was nothing there save for an abandoned desk, a dead computer and a stalwart but lonely, bookcase. As he neared the second chamber, he pivoted around swiftly, his back turning to the wall and his front ready to guard himself from an impending attack. There was none; just an empty janitor's closet – bucket and mop still intact.

_Two more rooms to go_.

He repeated his sweeps without incident and stood at the end of the hallway, a little relieved.

He pressed his fingers against his earpiece. "Velko," he whispered. "Where are you?"

A hiss of static. "_Trying to find the cafeteria_," hissed Velko, apparently frustrated with himself. "_I'm stuck in some fucking break-room_,"

"Stuck? What do you mean _stuck?_"

"_I mean __**goddamn stuck**__!_ _Stuck as in there's-a-fucking-Locust-across-the-hallway from-where-I'm-at kinda stuck!_" Velko whispers were heightened; he would yell if he had the luxury.

"_Oh good_," came Owens' voice – his tone deliberately casual, "_You found the drones_."

"_Yeah. That's great. I'm hiding behind a vending machine. I can't go nowhere_." Velko groaned softly.

"Don't worry," said Marcus, scowling. "Just wait it out. I'll do the same." He slipped into the room nearest to him and slid underneath a desk. He looked at his watch. Time was clocking by.

And then, "_Marcus, I got some activity out here_,"

"What do you see, Velko?"

A beat.

Velko's breathing seemed heavy, rushed. "_They – they just walked by with the prisoner. __**Shit**__._"

"What is it?"

"_That_ _ain't no Locust. Uh...that ain't no Locust that just walked by_,"

Marcus drew a large breath. Confusion was the last thing they needed. "If it's _with_ them, Velko, then that's reason enough for us to spray it with bullets. If it comes down to _it_ or _you_, save your own skin coz I'm damned sure it's not gonna hesitate in blowing your head off."

"_Yeah...okay. I gotta move though, they're taking the prisoner_ – " Velko sounded hurried, impatient. " – _Marcus, we might have a chance_."

Well, their cafeteria rendezvous was off of today's agenda. Marcus glanced at the time. They had twenty more minutes to go. The kid might be right though, this really was no time to be choosy. "Okay. Give me your location."

"_I'm going down the west corridor, uh...due north_,"

"Okay. I'm gonna cut him off – I'm gonna come up the west corridor, too, headed south," whispered Marcus. "Owens. We're gonna have to get a little messy if we're going through with the rescue. You want us to back off?"

A pause. "_**Shit**__. No, we're not calling this off. Gotta move with the times. I'll send Grove for the APC. If it's not out at the west entrance by the time you guys get out, head for the Watchtower_."

Marcus changed direction, making his way towards the west hallway. "Velko, one of us is gonna have to distract the guard. Now, I can do that. You grab the prisoner and haul ass, got it?"

He could hear Velko's breathing, despite the younger man's attempts to steady it. "_No. No, you can't do it. I'll have to hoodwink him. You take the prisoner._"

With every step that Marcus took, his frustration mounted at the same pace. "Owens said no goddamn heroics, pal. This isn't the – "

" – _look, it's gotta be me. They're gonna hit that damned sonic device again. You can't take it – I know you can't. But I can_,"

Marcus stopped in mid-step, and motioned decidedly with his hand. They were wasting precious time here. "What the _fuck_ are you trying to pull?!"

"_Just – just __**trust**__ me, Marcus. I know what I'm doing. I'll radio you when I've got his attention. Just grab our prisoner and run. I have to go offline now. Just trust me_."

_Christ Almighty_, thought Marcus. _This_ _was getting worse by the second_.

* * *

The air in the poorly-ventilated building smelt musty and stale. A dark mould crept up along cracks in the wall from which water and humidity had seeped through. Velko moved forward with his lancer in his left hand, and his right brushing up against the wall. He didn't know why he had to hold on to the wall, he had a better grip on his weapon if he used both hands. But the wall seemed comforting somehow, as if it had offered its solidity for him to steady himself with.

_Funny how you think, isn't it, when you're petrified_...

All his senses that were attune to survival urged him, pleaded with him even, to turn back. This didn't need to be a suicide run. But then, his conscience shouted forth severe rebuttals – _if you go back now, it means you turned your back on them. It means their lives are worth less than yours_.

_Just keep going, then_.

His hands, arms, legs – everything but his torso felt cold. He heard a rustling behind him and jumped, sharply turning his head. A piece of newspaper blew into the corridor from an office. Velko stared at the paper for a moment, as if he expected it to morph into a Locust. But then, when his heartbeat had slowed down from frantic to just plain quick, he resumed his forward stalk. He neared a sharp turn in the hallway, and stopped at its corner. Back to the wall now, he tried to lower his breathing. Surely anyone and everyone could hear the loud thumping in his chest. He needed to calm down.

_Think about the jazz_.

_Yes. If I'm going to die, this is how it's gotta be. But something good will come of it. And death is the price we pay for manipulating fate_. _A life for a life, a balancing of the books, if you will_. But Velko struggled for several moments, at that crucial corner, trying to accept the real possibility that he could die. _It will be a good death_, he kept reminding himself. But the tremors in his mind still didn't cease.

_Why am I doing this?_

_For them, of course. Mike, Tom, Susie_. And even if that prisoner didn't turn out to be one of them, it didn't matter – because they were still somebody's someone. They'd have done the same for him. We live for the love of others. And they live for ours.

A peace settled in him slowly, but it was coming nonetheless. He felt its warmth give him a strange strength, and he used the opportune moment given to him to peer around the corner carefully. His eyes gazed at the broad back of a Locust, now almost half-dragging its human prisoner along the linoleum floor. Despite it being dark, Velko couldn't ever recall a time when Locust skin had ever appeared to be that black. It seemed to be smooth in texture as well; almost as if he was staring at the distinct bone of shoulder blades of a human being.

But he quickly curtailed such academic observations, and began the more empirical doings. He drew his head back in, and looked around him for something, anything. He saw a hand-sized piece of rubble that had come loose from the wall lying on the floor, and picked it up. _Not the brightest of ideas_, he thought, _but it would do_. With this chunk gripped within his palm, he glanced quickly down the hallway again to make sure the Locust was still within sight.

He turned his communicator on. "Marcus, you still with me?"

He heard the drone of static and then, "_Yeah. Still here_." Marcus sounded none-too-pleased.

"Good," Velko took in a deep breath and flung the lump of rubble behind him, in the direction in which he had come. He peeked quickly as possible into the hallway again, seeing the Locust stop dead in his tracks. He had heard the noise, that much was obvious. And now he began to turn his attention to the direction of this new disturbance, relinquishing his grip on the prisoner as he did so. "Marcus – prisoner's exposed. _Go for it_," hissed Velko as he ducked into the nearest room, as quietly as he could.

"_Copy that_," was all that he could hear before Marcus went offline. But truth be told, Velko had his own problems without having to decipher anything else that came out of his communicator.

He heard heavy footfalls coming from the corridor, and he squeezed himself tighter between the back of an aged bookshelf and wall. Velko waited, tightening his chest. He couldn't hear the unmistakable sound of Locust breathing. Their characteristic guttural grunts and pants were absent, but Velko was dead certain that his foe was in the same room. He could sense it. He wanted to look and the tension was unbearable.

Giving in eventually, Velko tilted his head very slightly, allowing for one eye to survey the small room. He drew his breath in sharply, as he saw the tall creature bending over a desk, searching for the cause of the noise.

_Take him now_, Velko urged himself. _Clock him cold_.

He stepped out swiftly from behind the bookcase and delivered a heavy blow to the back of his enemy's head with the butt of his lancer. He went down, but only partially – his upper torso still above ground, aided by the support of his elbows. Velko hit him again, harder. The Locust sprawled flat on the ground. Velko wanted to shoot the creature in the back. But gunfire was too loud. He needed to buy the others enough time to escape with the prisoner.

His lancer's tip directed at the base of the being's neck, Velko began to slowly back away. "_Velko!_" issued Marcus' voice suddenly, and then he heard the muffled but distinct sound of gunfire through his communicator. "_Velko, jig's up. If you can hear me – sneak out the east exit. We're going out the west one – we've got the drones on our tail. Owens took out the boomer. I repeat, head out the __**east exit**__ – Grove's on his way with the APC. Do you copy?_"

Just as he was about to reply, he felt something latch onto his right ankle, bringing him down to the floor. He hit the ground hard, dropping his lancer in the process. He watched helplessly as his weapon skidded away from him. And then, just like a vision out of his nightmares, a black shape turned on him, pouncing over his body, pinning his arms to the floor. His eyes widened in terror as he looked back up at the hideous face. Hideous not because it was Locust, but because his mind told him that it was almost humanlike, while his gut told him that it was too alien. And in this instance, too dangerous. The intensely blackened features encased glazed and opaque eyes. It growled – a deep, sepulchral sound – as it tilted its head from side to side.

_The creature couldn't see him_, realized Velko.

It bent its head closer to Velko's achingly slowly, until it was mere inches away from his own. Velko instinctively turned his head to one side and shut his eyes. And then, a painful sound stemmed from it; the same torturous wail the others had heard a few hours ago. Velko opened his eyes a crack and saw that the creatures jaws had opened – the cacophony emanated from within itself. But while it was loud, the cries had no hold on Velko as it had on Marcus and the others.

It was _this _that Velko had anticipated, and while the creature's macabre bellows occupied it momentarily, the man made use of it's slackening grip on his wrists. He thrust his head upwards with all the energy he could muster, and hit his foe's crown with his own, throwing much of it's weight off of him. Velko scrambled backwards on his hands and feet to get away from the temporarily stunned beast. He somehow had managed to take hold of his lancer awkwardly, and nearly stumbling forward, he raced out of the room without looking back.

"Marcus!" rasped Velko. He swallowed; clearing his throat as he continued to run. "Marcus!"

"_Velko!_" shouted Owens instead. "_Where the hell are you? The sonic device is still inside!_"

Velko nodded, despite the realization that Owens couldn't see him. He was breathless. "Not inside!"

"_What?_" Owens' seemed to be breaking up. "_Turn the goddamn thing on – it's stopped some of the Locust! Turn it on! We're in the APC now so we can take it!_"

"No! Can't explain now – where are you at?" cried out Velko, as he skidded around corners, feeling slightly disoriented.

"_Coming around to the east entrance – hurry up, boy – before they get to you too!_"

_I'm coming, I'm coming. Fast as I can_. Velko broke into a large room, which contained rows of overturned tables and chairs. _Cafeteria. Which would mean that the east corridor would be at the far end. I got it_. He leaped over the fallen furniture, lancer now held by both hands. As he reached the doorway, he paused to look back at the direction from which he came. The opening at the other end was dark. And it occupied something within.

His heart sank, and for a few stupid, slow moments, he watched in dreaded fascination as the creature broke into a run as well, leaping over the same objects Velko had with considerably more ease.

His body carried him forward – there really was no time to think. Within seconds, he was enshrouded by moonlight – he had entered the lobby. He raced out the doors and into the street, his eyes darting, searching for the APC. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the flashing of lights, and he turned to see the rear of the APC open, Marcus and Owens beckoning furiously towards him. Running now on pure adrenaline, he fled in the direction of his companions, willing his muscles to work harder and faster. In a few moments, he was about a yard away from the APC, which had already begun to move forward. His friends stretched out their arms towards him, Owens' eyes locking with Velko's own, desperate for the younger man to reach him. And in the slowness of a heated moment, Velko saw Marcus' eyes focused not on him, but on something behind him.

_Don't look back_, Velko told himself. _Don't look back_.

Through some chance of fate, just when Velko could feel his strength ebbing away, his fingertips grazed Marcus' own. And the Sergeant had taken the opportunity to seize hold of them, yanking Velko forward. The misstep could have brought him down, but Marcus had tightened his grip on the younger man's wrist now.

Owens called out to the driver's compartment of the APC. "Floor it, Grove! We got him!"

The vehicle roared forward, Velko's feet and knees grazing the gravel as he was dragged along. Owens helped Marcus hoist him up, and within what seemed like an eternity, he was inside, safe. Velko remained on the cold metal floor for several moments, staring up the ceiling in a daze. Marcus and Owens sat on either side of him, panting.

Finally, Velko raised his head and looked at Owens – his chest heaving. "We okay? We got him?" he asked, referring to the prisoner. Owens nodded, jerking his chin in the direction of a slumped form that Dom was tending to. Velko let his head drop with a _thunk_ back onto the floor. "The next time I have a fucking plan, gimme a week's worth of morphine,"

Owens leaned back and closed his eyes. "_That_, I can do."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note (08/14/09)**

**Finally managed to churn out something acceptable here. To console those of you who were put off by the previous chapter's length, I've decided and managed to shorten my chapters to a certain extent. And since part of the point of this story is to address some of the questions that GoW 2 brought up, I've decided to at least _begin_ to hit on some of those points in this chapter.**

**To the people crazy enough to follow this story, thank you very, very much for reading and reviewing. Thanks to Katimnai, The WolvGambit, DamonxBairdx, Fire Kunai and ElsbethRurouni. Also, a big thanks goes to my ingeniously clever beta reader, Sasquatch.**

**Lastly, I received a PM from someone who's asked me about one of the characters in my story, Ruth, and whether she's an OC or canon character. For those who don't already know, Ruth is in the original game (mention of her can be found in the collectibles section of GoW 2). So have no fears of Mary-Sues here, mateys. I'm too chicken to even go there.**

**With that, subject yourselves to the latest round of torture that is chapter 7...**

**Oh and, before I forget: GO SEE DISTRICT 9. The movie was freaking awesome. If you're squeamish, and detest gore, then this is the movie for you.  
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**Circa 3026**

**17 Years Ago**

**New Hope Research Facility**

Carl made his way out the familiar back door, unwittingly resting his eyes on the rusted green dumpster; another object he was already acquainted with. He performed the ritualistic motion of reaching into his shirt's front pocket, and pulled out the half-filled carton of cigarettes. Lifting its lid carefully – all the while staring out into the open expanse beyond the perimeter of the facility – he eased the slim cylindrical commodity out, and replaced its container safely back into its cloth socket. With his left hand, he brought out the overused lighter and with a swift _flick_, he ignited the small tube before placing one end in his mouth.

He had been aching for the soothing calm of the nicotine, and let out a breath of smoke coiled with relief as he took his evening's first puff. He had allowed himself an increased amount of this particular luxury, justifying the unhealthy deed with the realization that he was being put through a lot of stress.

_Now there's a croc if I ever heard one_, he thought. _If you didn't want to eat the damned pie, you shouldn't have bought it, Carl_.

But even though, practically speaking, he had a choice in the matter, his emotional reasoning had rebutted that he didn't. And so he did what he could for one under his care, with the aid of an unusual accomplice in Doctor Adam Fenix. Perhaps _unusual_ was too obvious of a distortion, and adjectives such as _withdrawn_ and _unpredictable_ befitted the doctor's emotions of late. On the upside, realized Carl, Fenix had been true to his word. He had attended to Ruth attentively, even if he had employed Carl as a conduit of sorts. This indirect form of treatment was benefitting the young girl's health as well, Carl had noted. Fenix had masked reduced dosages – cleverly deceiving Doctor Samson – with other herbal ingredients that had little or no ill effect on Ruth's wellbeing. Frankly, Fenix came across as the better physician to Carl, but now was not the time to contest his and Samson's medical prowess. The younger doctor had even derived a habitual diet and exercise routine for his secret patient; something that seemed to have alleviated the swelling in her joints and that had managed to curb her hair loss as well. All in all, Fenix had done a splendid job of easing her ailments without garnering much attention from Samson.

_But how long could a good thing last, really?_

In two days time, Fenix would officially take leave of his duties. The dissociation was – for appearance's sake – permanent. But during this time, Carl would have to make clandestine trips to meet with his new ally. The secrecy of such visitations was going to be hard enough; for Carl was more or less and open individual, but the fact of the matter was that Fenix's presence in the facility lent an invisible, but sturdy, arm of support. Should anything out of the ordinary happen, there was nothing dramatically odd about Carl conferring with his superior. After all, this was how things worked. But Fenix's upcoming retirement, his leaving of the premises; such occurrences would leave Carl feeling dejected and quite alone. Of that much he was sure.

The door behind him suddenly creaked open and slammed shut, startling him. He jerked his head around only to gaze at the man who had occupied his most recent thoughts.

"Speak of the devil," muttered Carl; his words issuing forth quite unintentionally.

"...and he appears." finished Fenix, giving his companion a grim smile. "Thinking of me, were you?"

Carl let out a dry laugh. "I'll say." He nodded towards the grassless ground and shriveled bushes before them. "What brings you out to this neck of the woods? Thought you guys prefer the spruced up lawns out front. You wouldn't wanna be caught hobnobbing with the rest of us grunts, now would ya?"

Fenix rubbed his tired eyes and shook his head. "Feeling a little bitter today, huh?" Carl didn't respond, so the doctor continued. "We can keep this up better if I'm no longer a part of this institution, Carl. Sooner or later, Samson is going to suspect something. _That_, or he'll up the dosage and unintentionally end up killing Ruth. Either way, they'll trace it back to me."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. I've heard you mouth this a dozen times, doc. I'm in no mood to be – "

" – _patronized?_" cut in Fenix. "_Humoured?_ I'm not patronizing you. I think you're too damned intelligent for that sort of thing. I'm just telling you. Again. It's called repetition and it's certainly not indulgence. After all, repetition makes the statement all the more powerful, since you're obviously deafened to its meaning."

"Repetition makes it _mundane_," scowled Carl. He then yanked the butt of his cigarette out of his mouth and flung it to the ground in exasperation. "Look, why the hell have we gotta argue about rhetoric now, huh? Why don't we argue about what we're going to do with her? How we're gonna get her out?"

Fenix gave him a piercing look with his blue eyes. _Keep your voice down_, it read. "_Because_," he hissed through clenched teeth, "this isn't the time or the place."

Carl clamped his mouth down on an unspoken obscenity and looked away. "I can't do this on my own anymore,"

"You have to," said Fenix quietly and a little more gently. "The day you made up your mind to come speak to me about it was the day that the matter was closed. That was your point of no return, son."

"What do you expect me to do? Keep telling her that help is on the way? Never actually tell her _when?_ After all, how can I, when even I don't know what the hell is gonna happen next?" spoke the frustrated Carl.

"_Soon_, it's coming soon."

Carl turned his gaze back on the older man, his look challenging. "How soon? Today? Next week? Next year?"

"Next month," blurted the doctor. Carl was obviously testing his patience. "Give it a month."

"That's what you said to me last week." And then his tone softened suddenly. "Look, it's not that I'm ungrateful or anything, but we're playing with their lives here. It's just not something I enjoy dicking around with."

Fenix sighed. "Nor do I. We just have to keep this quiet. My coming out here to join you was a risk itself, trust me. But I'm only human and I needed the company."

Carl grunted. _Coulda fooled me_, is what he wanted to say. Instead, "So. What should I look forward to next month?"

The doctor let out a heavy breath, fighting with invisible dualities of reluctance and the need to be honest with his friend. He succumbed to the latter, guilty and simultaneously frightened of possible consequences. "They're transferring some new subjects – "

Carl whipped his entire body around in astonishment. " – new subjects?! _More kids?_" he exclaimed.

Fenix gestured with a placating hand, and spoke with a harsh whisper. "Voice _down_, for heaven's sake! And would you let me finish?" Carl gave his companion a contrite expression; the first of this conversation, before nodding in acquiescence. "They're transferring some new subjects – _not children_ – here next month. This is going to occupy Samson's and the others' time and their attention. Considerably. You'll have to prep Ruth, though. We can't have another one of her episodes again – "

" – you won't," cut in Carl, "she's been free of them for a while now."

"Good. But you'll have to tell her that she's going to have to under...well, you know." said Fenix, hinting at the possible use of benzodiazepines to slow down her pulse and heart rate. "I mean, we have to have her complete trust."

Just then, Carl gave Fenix a look of utter compunction; a result of guilty feelings that they both were responsible for. "Just like Rachel trusts us, you mean?"

The expression had its intended impact. Fenix averted his gaze and studied the dumpster with feigned preoccupation. "We can't save them both, Carl. We discussed this. Remember?"

"Could I really forget?"

"We can't save them both," repeated Fenix, as if for personal benefit this time. And he quite desperately wanted to, as well. But he had been exposed to military strategies and was fairly accustomed to its ploys and maneuvers. And he knew enough to reason that a lot of it involved the rational, cold feel of compromise. They would have to play this situation with a similar mentality. But he was no decorated general and Carl, well, Carl wouldn't even _tolerate_ being a simple medic in the damned COG. It was no easy feat to pull off something of this sort with stony apathy. And no matter what Fenix's own son, Marcus, thought of him, he wasn't as calculated and cold as all that. Logic had already determined the better option, but emotion and conscience had tainted it significantly. _What if, though, what if Carl was right, and what if they could save the other one too?_

"No, you're right. We're gonna end up without either of them if we go down that road," came out Carl's voice, interrupting the spreading doubt in Fenix's thoughts. "It's not the most – "

" – logical choice," added Fenix, nodding. But the guilt, the remorse was ever-present. Carl's words only seemed to graze its edges. He had to stick with the plan, though, as did Carl. They needed each other now. "I suppose...I suppose if we did all we could to ensure that Ruth survives this, then maybe..." his voice faltered.

"You think that would mitigate the circumstances? That it would make Rachel's loss all the more easier?" volunteered Carl.

_Was he being genuinely empathetic or simply sarcastic?_ wondered the doctor. He said nothing, waiting for the younger man to continue.

Carl shook his head and pulled out his cigarette carton. "'Cos y'know, I sure could use some kind of reassurance."

_Of course that was empathy_, Fenix chided himself, _this guy's in the same emotional boat_. "Well then, let's promise ourselves that. Now," he spoke, gesturing towards the nearly-lit cigarette in the orderly's hands, "Give us one of those, like a good lad."

Carl regarded the doctor in surprise. "I thought you don't smoke,"

Fenix shrugged his shoulders, feigning nonchalance without much success. "I do now."

* * *

**1 week later**

She stepped out of the shower and wrapped the towel around her small frame. Taking tentative steps towards a rack over which her draped clothes lay, she gingerly began the motions of dressing herself. As she slipped the brown t-shirt over her head, she caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror, and regarded the grin that had spread across her face. The excitement was so contagious that even her muscles and bones felt lighter. And why shouldn't she be ecstatic? The swiveling of bone against cartilage in her joints seemed more graceful, more fluid than ever. Her fine, faded brown hair was beginning to grow richer in texture and colour. Give it a few more weeks, and maybe she could even gather it up into a ponytail.

More importantly, though, she was able to move.

She had often found herself at odds with people who had taken simple rituals such as walking to the grocery store, to their car, or to their work for granted. True, these were minor accomplishments to the average person – but to her, it was a luxurious feat. It was something that had eluded her for most of her short life, and she had coveted it at all times. Sometimes in secret and sometimes out in the open. But the desire's nature was still the same – regardless of its evolving manifestations. Its roots were fundamental, the reasoning behind it black and white. She was lacking something that came to everyone else as second, _no_, first nature. In other words, they had something she never truly possessed.

She wasn't loathe to admit her envy – of course she was jealous of her healthier counterparts, anyone in their right mind would be. What got under her skin and writhed about, however, was the humiliating fact that she had to depend on them for conventional deeds so straightforward such as dressing herself. Combing her hair. Washing her frail body. And on the bad days, even feeding her, because her own puny, feeble limbs had refused to.

She had now managed to get her second leg into her cotton pajamas, and bent her knees guardedly to raise the item up to her waist. Having had successfully fully clothed herself, she looked down at her legs. She felt disappointed at her suspicions towards her own body. But she was wise enough to recognize that habits were habits – they were never fragile or meant to be broken so easily. She would just have to wear down such doubts, as time and consistency would soon come to work in her favour.

Emerging from the bathroom doorway, she saw Carl moving about her room, doing what he did best. Being attentive. This morning he was changing her bed sheets, yanking off the comforter, replacing the used pillowcases with clean ones. As he fluffed up the last cushion and had placed it at the head of her bed, he looked up from his menial duties and caught her smiling at him.

"I don't think I ever appreciated cream-coloured sheets before," she mused, taking one edge of the bed sheet between thumb and forefinger.

"That's because you've been gone too long from your bed – familiarity breeds contempt and all that." quipped Carl, ever-ready with his dry witticisms.

"I think I prefer _absence makes the heart go fonder_," added Ruth.

"Too cliché, kid. Too trite." He patted down the puffy comforter, and turned his attention to emptying out her trash.

She laughed. The joyful sound reverberated against the stark walls, and at that moment, Carl paused – oblivious to the closed trash bag in hand – realizing how beautiful it truly sounded. And how long it had been since that make of music had touched his ears. Especially in this cesspit of amorality.

"I think I'm kinda in the mood for trite today," she paused, sitting on the edge of the bed. "It's like having soup your entire life; having to sup on it through an IV. But now I get to have the bowl, the spoon..._plus_ the salt and pepper."

Carl placed his hands on his hips. He couldn't help but sport the contagious grin as well. "Terrific analogy – that. Couldn't have said it better myself."

Ruth flexed her fingers, and marveled at her hand as she did so. Today was phenomenal. A few sparks of soreness echoed in her thumb and index finger, but the pain was minimal during the now-simple task of muscle contraction. She felt full, fresh. As if she'd only just woken up to the world this morning. The day brought with it an enormous sense of possibility and the elation was something she couldn't find in herself to relinquish. Not that she was wanted to repudiate the emotion, anyway.

She turned her attention back to the orderly, and swallowed nervously. She'd been practicing this for several days now; rehearsing the request numerous times in her head.

"You know, I was thinking," she began.

"Uh-oh," started Carl playfully. "I'd better brace myself."

Ruth threw him a dry smile. "If you could spare me from your wit for one second," She pulled her legs carefully up onto the bed, wincing only once as she managed to arrange herself in a cross-legged position. "I was wondering if since I've been doing so great on these meds and all...I mean, like, I dressed myself this morning you know. And took a bath too. It's a big accomplishment – to me, anyway – "

" – you want to go outside, don't you?" he cut in.

Her lips parted in soft astonishment.

"Oh, don't look so surprised, kid. It isn't like I picked your brain while you were asleep. I've been your nurse for, how long now? Twelve years?" he said, considerably amused.

Ruth recovered from her shock almost instantly. He hadn't quite given her a reply either way, and she had to steamroll her way into an answer before her courage waned. "Well? Can I then?"

"Can you _what?_" continued Carl, his face an expression of artificial ignorance. He turned from her as if to resume his duties to the room.

"Stop it!" she laughed. "_You know! _Can I go outside?"

"Maybe."

_Oh, the bait was trickling down now_. But she bit into it knowingly, her recent moods enabling its allowance. "No, I don't want _maybes_. Black or white? Yes or no? Pick one!"

Carl regarded the teenager seated on the bed. Her sixteenth birthday had been three weeks ago. At that time, Samson had permitted the indulgence of one cupcake. Carl had brought it to her bed adorned with a lonely candle. Its wick had burnt into a miserable stump. The frosting and sprinkles had to be scraped off – her gastrointestinal system never could handle the enriched sugars that well. But the small gesture was enough to brighten her day; she managed to keep down three mouthfuls of the blueberry-rich delicacy and had said that it was the best she had ever tasted. Then she had asked if he'd made it himself, but he had to sheepishly admit that he had picked it up at the deli on his way to work. There was no lying to Ruth. She couldn't help but feel justifiably disappointed, but she had been too weakened and drained to verbally enable his guilt.

But here she was now, a much stranger, yet different creature entirely. An energy seemed to be bubbling beneath her surface, prepared to burst at the seams if it wasn't liberated soon enough.

"_Oh alright_. I was gonna make it a surprise, but it looks like you're ready to drag the cat out of the bag unless I tell you." he sighed in resignation, but simply couldn't relinquish his smile.

"For real?" she asked, eyebrows arched and daring to be hopeful.

"For real," he admitted, "and what's more, you have a visitor, too."

* * *

The veranda was small, but in its simplicity, it was beautiful. Several yards ahead of the large porch lay a koi pond, adorned with smooth, earthen-coloured rocks. A screen of bamboo plants stood serenely in the background, the young shoots a fresh green contrast to the darkened browns and yellows of its more mature counterparts. A row of tulips and some other unidentifiable flora grew contentedly by the base of the brick wall that was the perimeter of the small terrace. A gentle wind swept its way among the long necks of the orange tulips, causing each flower head to sway in accordance to its rhythm.

With Carl walking by her side (although she didn't seem to need the assistance), Ruth made her way onto the veranda cautiously – still reasonably apprehensive that her old self would make an impromptu appearance. Carl led her to a wicker chair, and she sat down.

She peered up at her friend. "I want to see the fish in the pond,"

There was something so childlike about the request; an innocence that had only just now been released. He smiled, as he eased a red cushion behind her to support her back. "You can. But there's someone here who's come to see you. You can take a gander at the koi pond afterwards."

"Are they all red and white? Like in the books?"

She was still eager to make her way towards the pond, he realized. He paused, thinking. Truth be told, he had never really taken the time to closely observe the colours of their scales. Such discernment didn't ever seem to warrant such priority. How sad it was, then, that he took such things for granted. "Tell you what, let's just have a quick peek now, alright? But then you gotta get back into that seat and rest. You don't want to use up all of your new-found energy, now do you?"

"It won't run out," murmured Ruth, but she was already out of her chair and crossing the grass towards the water. Within moments, they both gazed down at through the clear liquid at the elegant swimmers. As they swished their tails from left to right and cut effortlessly through the water, Ruth caught glimpses of red, white and orange patches on their sides and fins. Excited, her eyes darted from each occupant to the next, never quite sure which one she wanted to focus on. Then finally, her gaze settled on a small fish, its right fin obviously torn and only partly useful. Though its movement had slowed in comparison to its counterparts, its actions didn't carry through as a form of struggle; almost as if its mode of propulsion came to it as second nature. In other words, the absence of self-pity, the disapproval of the need for sympathy wasn't just elegant. It was beautiful.

Carl followed her line of sight, and regarded the deformed fish thoughtfully. "That one's you," he said softly. "The best of the bunch."

"For real?" she said, her eyes shining.

"For real."

"I remember reading this line one time – a long while ago. And you know, I never really knew what it meant." she said.

"What was it?" he asked.

Ruth paused, remembering. "_I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A bird could fall dead from a branch without ever having felt sorry for itself_. I thought it was supposed to be beautiful – the way the writer wrote it, but I never got its meaning." She pointed at the fish. "I think he gets it, though. And now, so do I."

Carl nodded slowly, his eyes captivated by the fish before him. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw movement and looked up in time to see Adam Fenix slide up alongside of him. The doctor held his hands behind him, and considered the unlikely pair to his right.

"Knew this guy once," he began, "who used to draw the most fabulous koi paintings."

Ruth turned her gaze towards the older man, regarding him with some degree of suspicion. White coat or no, the facility's main occupants compromised of nurses and doctors. The other patients – now she rarely caught glimpses of them save for rare occasions. And since the other nurses, though mostly doctors, had given her nothing but grief intermingled with pain, she had justifiable reasons to mistrust them. And since this gentleman standing to the left of Carl seemed too impeccably groomed and attired to be one of the other waif-like patients, she had calculated that he must have been one of Samson's goons. And at that moment of realization, she had decided to treat him with a significant measure of contempt.

"Who the hell are you?" she piped out.

Carl jerked his head towards her, and like a parent who hadn't quite concluded whether surprise or anger should precede the other, he snapped. "_Ruth!_"

Narrowing her eyes and switching her focus from Fenix to Carl, and then back to Fenix, she spoke – her voice still cold and quite cavalier. "You're interrupting my time outside,"

Carl stared at her oddly. Apparently surprise had anteceded anger. He'd never quite seen her this way. _My time?_ Her tone oozed contemptuousness, and her manner seemed lofty and supercilious. He knew she despised the other doctors here – with a special portion of her fury reserved solely for Doctor Samson – but this was different, somehow. At any rate, she didn't know who she was addressing, and he had to put a stop to this drama.

"Mind your manners, Ruth, or it's back inside for you," he warned.

Ruth cast her eyes down, contrite.

"It's alright, Carl, really," reassured Fenix.

"No it's not. She doesn't know what you've done. _All_ that you've done for her. And that you're the reason she can step out of her damned white-washed prison and actually _walk_ here."

"No really," soothed Fenix again, "she probably has every reason to be mad."

Ruth shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, but kept her gaze fixed on the pond. She's seen enough television to discriminate Mr. Good Cop from Mr. Bad Cop, and the doctor here had quite willingly donned the garb of the former. Carl, however, had unwittingly walked into the shoes of the harried parent, and was all ablaze with anger at her behaviour towards the older man. But if either one of them thought that she would now open up to this doctor, this _appeaser_ of sorts, they were quite mistaken.

"Ruth," directed Carl, his brows still furrowed together, "Go sit down. Doctor Fenix wants to discuss some things with you." He walked slowly behind her as she approached the wicker chair, and just as she had sat down, he bent close to her ear and whispered quickly into it. "_Be nice_." And then he straightened, paused before walking out and spoke in a much louder voice. "I'll be back for you in an hour."

She craned her neck as Carl went back indoors, somewhat alarmed at his departure. She hadn't expected him to leave her here, with this white-coat. The action left her a little shaken, and her guard partially down.

"You don't know who I am, do you?" began Fenix, as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Ruth shook her head, no.

He walked towards a pillar, and leaned against it, crossing his arms as he did so. "I uh...am quite, well...pleased at your progress."

Ruth raised her eyebrows questioningly, quite recovered, and composure-regained. She remained tight-lipped, waiting for the doctor to continue.

"That is to say," began the now-flustered Fenix again, "I've noticed that you've recovered. From your ailments."

Ruth scoffed. "Ailments _you_ guys gave me, if I'm understanding everything correctly."

Fenix stared out in front of him for a few uncomfortable moments. And then he sighed, in an attempt to release all the unwanted tension from his weary soul. "I suppose, yes, we did give it to you. But _we_ – well, Carl and myself – are trying to remedy that." At this, he looked straight at her and gestured towards her seated form. "And it looks to me that we're well on our way."

She gripped the sides of her chair tightly. "I'm not some _science project_, doctor."

"Now did I say that?" He gave her a patronizing look.

She did not take to it kindly. "Your words _imply_ your feelings."

The doctor sighed for second time, and stepped forward, extending his hand in greeting. "Let's skip the past five minutes and forget that they ever happened, okay? I'm Doctor Fenix. I'm here to _help_ you, Ruth. To get you out of this place. If that means anything to you."

"Should it?" she asked, somewhat disbelievingly. She rebuffed his pacifying gesture and motioned around her environment. "I mean, I'm still here, aren't I?"

"You have to understand – I'm not Doctor Samson, I'm not Doctor Shannon. In fact, I'm not like any of the other physicians here."

Now it was her turn at frustration. "Doctor Fenix. I'm sixteen years old. Sick though I may be, I'm not a child and neither am I going senile. Cut out the ABCs and get straight to Edgar Allen Poe, please."

Inside, Fenix wanted to laugh. But he daren't now. That might end whatever little headway he had made already. Carl had said that she was quick and very bright, but he had conveniently omitted her sharp wit. Fenix wearily placed his hands on his hips and tried again. "I can't work in this institution anymore, Ruth. I couldn't stand for what was happening here. It was an attack of conscience, a strange compulsion of morality. You can call it whatever you want. Either way, I may have not begun this mess but I was a part of it. I want to abscond with whatever part of my soul I have left. So I suppose, yeah, what I'm doing really _is_ quite selfish – in its own way."

"Rehearsed that one good, didn't you?" she responded, her voice a monotone.

"Give me a break, Ruth. You have to believe me. Carl does."

"Carl's great and all, but he's...well, a little naïve. And what does he have to do with you, anyway?"

"It's like I said," explained Fenix, "we have some plans – to get you out."

Ruth pointed at her chest, a trifle incredulously. "Me? Why single me out? There are a hundred children here."

"Less than that, I assure you."

"Okay, how many then?" she asked. The question was a loaded one, and she was using it as a tool to measure his honesty and to ascertain just how much he was willing to divulge.

"Twenty."

"Why aren't you helping them all?"

He stared at her through his thick glasses and then took them off. He pulled out a pale handkerchief, and then began to wipe its surface slowly. "Because they can't all be helped." He situated the spectacles back onto his face.

Ruth gazed back at him, her eyes darkened with confusion and a little anger. "Because you _can't_, or you _won't_?" And then before he could continue, "Because if you won't, then your plan sucks big time. Since Carl, and hence..._you_, would know I wouldn't go along with it if you're not helping the others as well." Her voice then lowered, growing sad with a haunting realization. "So it must be that you can't. You can't help them because there's really nothing you can do. They're dying, aren't they?"

Fenix studied the young girl in wonderment. In the span of a few minutes, she had already deduced that the pair were in a dilemma. And at that instant, Fenix had decided that Carl was quite right. The doctor initially had his reservations about divulging any of their designs to Ruth, but Carl had warned him that sooner or later, she would have assembled some manner of conclusion. And that hypothesis, carved with her already constant suspicions, would have made for several engravings of mistrust. Fenix had been glad, then, that he had acted on the orderly's advice. Having her confidence and faith on their side was a necessary asset for this rescue.

"Yes," answered Fenix, "they're dying."

"But I'm not?" asked Ruth.

Fenix shook his head. "That's why it has to be you. You're responding well to treatments that the other patients' bodies can't handle. If we're to salvage anything from this place, Ruth, it has to be you."

She broke her gaze on the doctor and placed her hands in her lap. She could feel them growing cold. "It doesn't seem fair," she said.

"You of all people should know that the world comes with a lot of things, but fairness isn't one of them."

"But you still can't change what it is, and you can't really change how I feel, can you?"

Fenix regarded her sadly. Her eyes now began to mirror his own remorse. "You mean the guilt?" She nodded, but said nothing. "You can't rid yourself of the guilt. But you have to deal with it – you'll have to come to terms with it. In your own way, and in your own time, of course."

Little by little, her iciness towards him was beginning to thaw. Now there was no development of warmth or manifestations of an instant connection to the doctor, but the emotion was an empathetic one. He didn't appear to be lying, and his words were laid out as honestly as an open-faced card. The truth wasn't always comforting and this instance was a pristine example of that fact. She could protest and argue till the skies froze over, but reality was life, and life was reality.

"So did you come here to see me just to tell me I'm special, or what?" she questioned, her temper growing short with these evolving revelations. "What can I possibly do to help you anyway?"

"I came here," began Fenix, "I came here to inform you, yes. There are certain things we will have to do. And when everything comes together, I want you to be aware of what to expect."

"What should I expect?" asked Ruth, her voice suddenly much smaller.

Here, he paused, his thoughts flashing towards Rachel – the girl who had now become another necessary element to this operation. If he told Ruth just what kind of cost was being arranged for her survival, and just how they were prepared to barter Rachel's life for this girl before him, here, now, she might never go along with it. No, that was an actuality he would conveniently have to omit. "We're going to have to put you under for a while." He fussed with his collar uncomfortably. "Simulate death."

"_What?_" came Ruth's voice, incredulous.

"It's the only way you can leave this facility,"

"_In a damned body bag?_" she asked, eyebrows still raised in amazement.

He nodded, loathe to verbally agree to her question.

She looked away again, and shook her head quietly. And following several distressing moments, she spoke. "You know, as crazy as this plan sounds, you might just have hit the nail on the head. I – I can't see my getting out of here in any other way. Samson visits me daily, and when he can't, he sends someone else in on his behalf. I'm being watched like a loaded bank vault,"

Fenix rotated his palms upwards in a gesture of helplessness. "There isn't any other way, Ruth." he repeated.

Then, she suddenly looked up at him in alarm. "But what if they do an autopsy? I'm no corpse and they're gonna figure out that out in a heartbeat!"

He swallowed. "You leave that part to us. I've got that figured out."

"What if I really do die, though? What if you overdose me by accident?"

Fenix rubbed his face, tiredly. This was no easy conversation to have, and he had been foolish to anticipate that it would hold few difficulties. In fact, for a time it was quite effortless to stand on the other side, playing the part of a bystander, an onlooker. It enabled objectivity and a sense of control. But now, talking with her, the view was being twisted, molded as to be seen through her own eyes. Objectivity and apathy drained rapidly through gaping holes, and were replaced by a gooey mess of emotions.

She was afraid, and now he was afraid, too.

And the only manner by which to combat fear, he knew, was to reconcile with oneself. After all, there were always two choices. Stay, or go. Settle, or risk. A decision had to be made, one way or the other.

"You have to see, Ruth, the truth for what it is. Then you can either accept it, or change it," put forth Fenix. "Are you happy here?"

She paused. "It's the only life I've ever known," she replied quietly.

"You didn't answer my question. _Are you happy here?_" he asked again.

She met his blue eyes with her own and gazed into them piercingly. Defiantly. "_No._"

"It's a heavy gamble, what we're about to attempt. I won't go forward without your approval. And to answer your question, _yes_, there's a chance things could go wrong. Your heart could stop beating. It's up to you now – to decide. Is this a path you're willing to tread? Are you willing to risk your life for it to change?"

Ruth closed her eyes and exhaled, long and heavy. "Yes." she answered finally. "And what's more, I'd do it again if I needed to."

* * *

**One month later**

**Timgad**

The balcony was small, but by way of necessity for fresh air, it served its purpose. He sat in the waning light of the day, on the uncomfortable metal frame of this _object_ that only some would identify as a chair. Despite the effects the rigid seat had had on his rear end, he'd already fully enjoyed his sixth nicotine dose of the day, and was readying himself for his seventh when the phone rang. A frown wrinkled across his face as he stepped across the threshold which separated the urban cityscape from his only slightly more cramped and haphazard flat. As he moved towards the insistent ring of the telephone, he almost tripped over an inconveniently situated pile of medical books – a mumble of curses issuing from his mouth.

"Hullo?" he spoke, his voice a little heightened from his near-mishap with his books only a few moments ago.

A pause. "_Carl?_"

"Yes," he responded, a little hesitantly. No one save for his ailing grandfather took the time to contact him, and even then, he only did so every two weeks or so. The voice on the phone sounded slightly muffled. And it was difficult to identify his caller from the one second during which he spoke.

"_It's Adam_."

Carl breathed out slowly. "I thought we were never to call each other?"

"_This is an exception_,"

"Why?"

"_They're moving in some new – uh, tissue samples into the facility tomorrow_." He sounded nervous, agitated.

"What?" asked Carl, confused. He hadn't seen Adam Fenix for over two weeks now. Their last meeting was abrupt and had mostly involved a discussion over modified medication that Samson had prescribed for Ruth.

Carl could hear Fenix let out a breath over his earpiece. He seemed harried and frustrated. As if whatever he wanted to say required some considerable holding back. "_You remember, a month ago, I told you about the tissue samples that were going to be coming in after I left. Don't you remember?_"

_Hell_, thought Carl, _the old wanker was finally going nuts_. He shook his head, no. Fenix was trying to tell him something, but try as he might, his nicotine-laced brain couldn't conduct much deciphering at this time of the day. "I don't know what goes on between the labs and the clinics, doc," began Carl, "Whether they're ordering tissue samples or incubators – I haven't got a clue. You do know that, right?"

"_Of course I know!_" shot back Fenix quite suddenly. Carl heard a stifled groan on the other end before Fenix continued. "_The tissue samples that are arriving – they're fresh. New._"

Carl squeezed his eyes shut, urging the gears within his mind to turn faster. _Fresh samples?_ Of course each sample was fresh – following the process of extraction, they were instantaneously frozen in liquid nitrogen before storage. Anything fresher than that would have to be, well, _alive_. And then it hit him.

"_Christ_," swore Carl, "the subjects – those people, you mean they're coming in tomorrow?"

"_Quiet!_" hissed Fenix, alarmed at Carl's loosely flowing words.

Fenix was fearful, afraid of something. Were his phones tapped? Was his home wired? Of course, thought Carl, if the criticality in Fenix's voice hinted at anything, it alluded to such possibilities. Carl then winced, now aware of his error. His tone was apologetic, "Sorry, doc, my bad. But this gives us so little time to plan! Can you at least tell me when exactly?"

"_Tomorrow. That's all I know. There's an unofficial communications blackout – a lot of the employees were handed memos – to take the day off. My guess is, you're one of those employees_," elaborated Fenix.

"_Shit_. What about her, though? And how are we gonna be able to use this transfer as a distraction if we can't be there?" questioned Carl – it was his turn at discomposure now.

"_The transfer is supposed to take a day only. My guess is that they're going to be quite captivated by their new occupants for several days. Weeks even. We still have a slight advantage, Carl_,"

Carl's anxieties were beginning to heighten, and Fenix's consolation seemed to fall on deaf ears. "Oh yeah?" he asked, his voice growing acrimonious. "What's that? Because from where I'm standing, I'm the one who's gonna have to deal with the fallout when the shit hits the fan,"

"_I'm with you on this, Carl. One hundred percent. Don't you forget that, alright?_"

"You gotta admit, doc, it's kinda hard since I'm on one end and you're on the other. I mean, c'mon, I go into work with this on my shoulders every day. You don't have to deal with it anymore – I do. Do you know what she asks me each time? She asks me _when, Carl?_ And then I have to tell her to wait and be patient. _Every day_, Adam! She's waited a long while, and frankly, so have I. You don't see her as often, you don't have to feel what I feel. The waiting is endless. And finally, when it looks like we might be getting a break, neither one of us is gonna be there to do anything about it."

There was a pause; a minute filled with silence. "_I gave you my word_," came out the doctor's voice. This time his tone didn't sound conciliatory; his words consisted of a heavy-handed statement. "_I don't go back on my word_. _Now what I'm telling you – I took great pains to learn. And I'm taking one hell of a risk calling you like this. If I wanted to leave you in the fray to pull this off yourself, believe me, son, I'd have done so months ago. This is the way things are unraveling, so if you don't like it, by all means – throw in the towel walk away. And I'll handle everything myself, too. Just don't – for even a second – accuse me of neglecting my duties, do you hear me boy?_"

Carl swallowed. He wanted to hit back just as hard – so tightly wound were his nerves. But Adam Fenix was his only ally now, and he had been an assiduous and expedient one at that. There was really no reason to unleash all of his frustrations upon him – he needed the doctor, and the doctor needed him. "I – I'm sorry, doc. It's been a rough couple of months. I honestly didn't know what I was gonna be getting myself into when I signed on for this," explained Carl.

Fenix gave a loud scoff that was audible over the receiver. "_You didn't sign on for anything, Carl. You're not enlisting. You conscience presented you with a dilemma and you opted for the right choice. And besides, you think that anyone who knows they're stepping into hot water is aware of what exactly to expect? If they did, there would be no heroes, no Spartan feats to carve into memorial walls. You're human – that's what you are_."

"I don't wanna fuck anything up," said Carl softly.

"_Neither do I. But these worries go with the territory. Listen, go have another smoke_," directed Fenix, quite aware that the younger man was probably on a nicotine roll already, "_and try to relax. __**Please**__. Everything hasn't been shot to hell yet – just try to keep that in mind. When the time is right, we'll start playing the field under our rules. If we rush things now, we'll lose everything_. _I'll call you in a few days._"

Carl let out a dry laugh. "Patience isn't my virtue, doc."

"_Well, grow some character then_," responded Fenix, before hanging up.

* * *

**The following day**

She rose through the sleepy haze of semi-wakefulness to the sounds of jostling about in her room. She blinked a few times, rubbing one eye with the back of her hand to clear her vision. Looking in front of her she saw a figure, bent over with their back to her.

"Carl?" Ruth called out.

The figure straightened to reveal a blonde head with a tight chignon situated at the nape of her neck. As the individual turned around, she spoke. "Carl's off duty today,"

Ruth scowled and glanced towards the digital clock near her bedside table. The numbers glowed defiantly at her. "It's five in the morning," muttered Ruth, a little grumpily. Sleep was something rare to her; it was something she coveted, and rightly so. "Who're you and what're you doing here at five in the morning? Carl doesn't get in here until eight thirty,"

The woman placed her hands on her waist. "Well, I'm not Carl and Carl's not me. I do things a little differently."

Ruth craned her neck so as to peer at the table located at the far end of the room. "What're you doing?"

The woman looked over the young girl for a moment, before deciding to continue. "I was taking a peek at your charts – looks like Carl missed his eight thirty visit last morning,"

Ruth stared at the woman indignantly. "Carl did not _miss_ his visit, he got here at eight forty-five. That's fifteen minutes off the mark. What're you? Some kind of programmed robot that crashes every time something doesn't happen on schedule?"

The older woman cocked her neck at an angle and drew her lips tightly together – the corners turning downwards ever so slightly. "I happen to be your nurse today, Ruth. And you can call me Mrs. Turner." Then she turned her back on the girl once again, before picking up the chart on the table and scrutinizing it further. As her eyes made their way down the tabulated instructions and checklists, she said, "And Mrs. Turner doesn't take to impolite children."

_Oh Lord_, thought Ruth as she rolled her eyes, _not only is she referring to herself in the third person, but she seems to have walked right out of an outdated sitcom_. She wanted nothing more than to wield her wit and impertinence to try the thresholds of this cantankerous nurse, but something told her that there really was no point. She had matured past the days where she could eke out some entertainment by distressing a particular doctor or orderly, but now, such cheap thrills seemed pointless and served only as time wasters that sapped her energy.

Perhaps she would go for subtle condescension instead, decided Ruth. "Of course, Mrs. Turner. I hope you can forgive my ungraciousness, and the manner by which I demanded an introduction,"

Mrs. Turner lifted her gaze from the chart, and allowed it to settle on the sixteen-year-old. She seemed at odds – wondering if this change in inflection was the result of her own authoritative presence or if the girl was carrying her impudence to another level. She studied the teenager's unassuming appearance and concluded that it was the former. Children were never capable of weaving inconspicuous satire into their comments anyway.

The nurse nodded slowly, "Good. You'll find that things will flow much more fluidly if you decide to be congenial. Civility is severely lacking in our society, and that's primarily because the youth in this day and age aren't instructed in its ways."

Ruth somehow managed to suppress a surging guffaw, trying earnestly to emit the action as a stifled cough instead of a peal of laughter. _Seriously_, she wondered, _who the hell talks like this anymore? _She quickly lowered her gaze to stifle any further outbursts and nodded her head, as if she wholeheartedly agreed with the woman. "Oh, I concur, Mrs. Turner. We're nothing but a bunch of rowdy hooligans. And I'm honestly grateful to people such as yourself who're eager to point out the errors of our ways. We'd all de-evolve into decrepit Neanderthals if it wasn't for persons like you."

The woman murmured an inaudible acknowledgement, while her eyes alluded to the fact that she regressed back into indecisiveness. And again, she hadn't yet deduced whether Ruth's remarks were complimentary or simply audacious. _Better not push it_, thought Ruth. She spoke up immediately, interrupting any sort of conclusion Mrs. Turner could arrive at. "Are you here to give me my dosage then?" asked Ruth.

"No. It's nearly time for a complete medical this month – blood pressure, hormone levels, cell counts – the works. And Dr. Shannon told me to conduct it today." explained the nurse.

"Where's Dr. Samson? I thought he's in charge of the checkups,"

"Dr. Samson is occupied today – "

"Occupied?" chirped Ruth, interrupting. "I thought _we_ were his only occupation!"

The older woman gazed at her disapprovingly. "Dr. Samson is a very busy man. He's more than just a doctor, Ruth, he's a scientist."

_You don't say_, Ruth told herself with cynicism. She kept her biting words to herself, in favour of finding out what exactly was going on. "What's he working on today?"

"I don't know," replied the nurse.

But there was an inflection in her voice that led Ruth to believe that she did know. And that she wasn't allowed to share. She persisted. "It's okay, you can tell me. I don't think I'm really in a position to steal his research, you know,"

Mrs. Turner sighed. "Go get dressed, Ruth. I'm going to have to take you down to the examination room,"

"Tell me first, and then I'll get ready."

The nurse gave her a sour look before relenting. "Oh alright. I suppose you'll find out sooner or later, anyway. And it's not like I'm completely in the know either, mind you. We're having some patients being transferred in from another facility. That's all. Now will you please get dressed?"

Ruth furrowed her brows. _More patients? Like herself?_ "Is this why Carl was given the day off?" she said loudly. "Did they give some of the other orderlies the day off too? Why?"

"Get dressed!" exclaimed Mrs. Turner. "There are other patients besides yourself who need my attention!"

Ruth slipped out of bed – immune to the woman's temper – all the while a barrage of questions tumbled through her mind. _If more children were being transferred to this facility, that could mean that some of the procedures Samson and the others were employing were successful. Or alternatively_, Ruth conjectured sadly, _the others had already died and they needed a fresh supply_. She shuddered.

* * *

Ruth walked a few feet behind the woman as they strode down the pristine corridor. She was perfectly capable these days of keeping up with the nurse, but the teenager's slackened pace was deliberate, seeing as how she didn't enjoy the thought of walking alongside a woman who reminded her most of aged relics that only a historian could appreciate. The fact was, on first glance, the older woman really didn't appear to be so ancient. She was most likely in her mid- to late-forties; but four decades was apparently long enough for her to develop her prudish ways. She probably lived alone, wondered Ruth. And she probably surrounded herself with lackluster furniture together with didactic books that instructed her in the ways of religion, philosophy and knitting patterns.

As they made a right at an intersection of hallways, Ruth paused in mid-step, her ruminations coming to a sudden and abrupt halt. She felt strange, queasy almost. But it wasn't a wave of weakness that had begun to sweep over her. And for the moment, that was all that she could decipher. She turned around slowly, the nurse quite oblivious to this morphing of emotion, and began to stride in the opposite direction.

The sounds of her flip-flops against the cool linoleum came softly, but even if her feet donned heavy boots – and her footfalls echoed loudly in the corridor – she wouldn't be able to hear it. Her ears were attuned to something altogether new.

Altogether alien.

It was then that her muscles began to feel the beat of adrenaline pulsing through her blood. They stiffened, akin to a coiled serpent ready to spring. But her mind and thought hadn't yet turned defensive – of that much she was certain. This swelling seemed to urging her forward, calling to her.

And that was when her nurse had finally perceived that her patient was no longer following her. She called out to Ruth in frustrated anger, but the command issued forth as a hollow, garbled noise. Ruth paid it no heed. Slowly but surely then, her pace quickened into a jog, and she followed her feet to where instinct had led her. She pushed open a doorway that was to be used in case of emergencies only, and as she broke out into the grounds of the facility, a deafening alarm sounded. But once outside, the mechanical wails were muffled and she continued along her invisible trail.

Within the span of a few minutes, she found herself within another section of the facility, and she weaved through a maze of hallways to emerge into a slightly more larger one. There, she froze, intently studying a brawl that was progressing on the tiled floor. Two orderlies, no, three, were piled on top of someone else, each awkwardly trying to pin the hidden individual to the ground. In between the midst of the somewhat silent struggle, she caught glimpses of the wretched soul the three men were trying to subdue. Each brief sighting consisted of an exposed limb and no facial features, but it was enough for her blood to run cold at the sight of it.

A grayish hand slipped through the fray in an attempt to heave the weight off of itself, and in that instant her eyes were fixed on the lengthy, black fingernails. And in the fraction of a second that followed, the nurses' bodies parted to expose a grotesque face. It's lips were drawn upwards; the disfigurement betraying the red gum-line of it's mouth, and rows of sharpened teeth. It was the eyes that captivated her, however. They were fearful, hunted. They had inexplicably locked onto Ruth's – holding her gaze with its own. And the struggling ceased. The three men took advantage of the misstep; holding the creature down. They stood up, each of their backs shielding her from a more revealing view. One of the orderlies seemed to deliver a swift kick to their captive's stomach, and it emitted a guttural groan that tore into her emotions.

And then, several things happened at once.

She had involuntarily called out; the sound loud enough for one of the men to turn their heads in her direction. Another man approached the now-complete tussle from the opposite end of the hallway, and his eyes bounced straight from the incident and towards Ruth's small frame. She didn't quite comprehend all that he was shouting about, and her mind chugged furiously to play catch-up to his words.

" – _out of here!_ And for heaven's sake take him inside, now! I told you idiots to use the west entrance!"

She watched as events unfolded in slow motion, and saw two of the nurses partially drag their captive into another room, as the third made swift and powerful strides towards her. She wanted to run, but her feet remained rooted in place.

Before she knew it, she had been picked up by dominant arms, and was being carried away to be cast back into familiar surroundings once again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note (11/07/09)**

**The boys are back in town.**

**I owe the people who were following this story a huge apology for my long-as-heck hiatus. Truth be told, there are two reasons for why this story got pushed onto the backburner. **

**I had this chapter written out months ago, but I didn't feel it was satisfactory enough to be posted up. And at the time, I didn't have the oomph or creative stimulants to improve it. So it sat in my laptop – all dejected-like – until I felt the inspiration to revive it earlier today. I've changed a couple things I thought were contrived and too far-fetched, and am kinda sorta happier with it now.**

**The second reason is because I've been trying to work on some original fiction, and I've allotted a ton of my day-dreaming moments to the characters in that story. Marcus, Dom, Cole and Baird, in the meantime, had all been locked up in stuffy linen closets. Poor dainty little things. I've heard their shouts now, so I've loosed them with the hope that I can at least come close to finishing this story.**

**As always, reviews, critiques and comments are much appreciated but I also understand if it feels too tedious to read, seeing as how you might have to go back a couple chapters to refresh your memories as to what has taken place before this update.**

**Anyways, hopefully this chapter might catch your interest. I'm driving into the more action-y/meatier portion of the story. (For those of you who know me, you're probably aware that I'm inept at leaping successfully into the plot at the very beginning – what with my obsession with character development and all.) There's a little bit of a twist to this chapter, a dash of inter-protagonist confrontation where I had the impulse to make Marcus deck someone well and good, and some fillers in the plot too. Not stellar stuff, but maybe acceptable enough to make for a decent read.**

**Thanks for putting up with me and as always, thanks for reading.**

**P.S. I've been away from Fanfiction for so long – I've got some reading and reviewing of my own to catch up on!**

**P.P.S. For those who're interested, I was wondering if any of you might have any suggestions or ideas as to what they'd like to read about next. Would you like to see Cole share the spotlight some more? Would you prefer it if Baird took golf lessons? You know, stuff like that. While I have the backbone of the plot in mind, I obviously haven't fleshed out everything, and I can't promise to incorporate all the suggestions, but I **_**do**_** want to hear from you and give you my word that I will consider all ideas. Danke!**

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**60 miles from the Tergus Mountain Range**

**Present day**

The wounded man lay still and unconscious within the APC. He was a morbid yet welcome distraction from recent events – their narrow escape was a particularly harrowing one, and for the moment, all they wanted was to push the disturbing memories onto the backburner. The man's face and wounds were masked by partial darkness, save for the wandering beam of light over his body. Its source was gripped tightly by Owens – who hunched, grim-faced, over the inanimate man before him. Every other minute, the flashlight's intensity seemed to wane, and he shook it vigorously, willing it to work harder through this rough form of physical coercion. He gingerly lifted the man's tattered shirt, revealing the dismal image of a pervasive wound. Even the others – who were seated in relative darkness, and who had been watching Owens' tentative analysis with dreaded fascination – could easily make out the blackened spread of dried blood caked over the man's torso.

Dom, who had less of a stomach for such visceral images, looked away and mumbled quietly to himself. In contrast, Marcus, who hadn't averted his gaze during the past five minutes, sat tight-lipped and rigid in his seat.

The only one who couldn't bear the oppressive tension in the vehicle spoke, eager for some inane dialog. "Too late for a tourniquet now, isn't it," said Velko, his question already molded into an unnecessary statement.

"Looks like it," muttered Owens. "Can't tell how extensive his injuries are either," He ran the beam of light down the man's legs, catching sight of exposed flesh through the ripped trousers. Upon closer observation, the raised edges of a wound appeared reddish and angry, while the remainder of its depressed periphery displayed the obscene blackness of a spreading infection. "_Shit,_" said Owens softly.

"What is it?" asked Velko and Marcus in unison.

"Gangrene," began Owens, "and it looks to be expanding too. There's no telling where else he's contaminated without removing all his clothes." With that, he bent down further, lowering his nose until it was just centimeters from the laceration. Much to the distaste of his three companions in the vehicle, he took a deep whiff and sat back up, his shoulders drooping slightly. "Dry gangrene though – that's a good sign," he said, visibly relieved. "Guy's got some borderline malnutrition so that could be a partial cause."

"And dry gangrene is bad because...?" queried Dom, clearly confused at how the variations of such a condition could put anyone's mind at ease. To him, the disfigurement was often well acquainted with amputation, and justifiably, the procedure was something he strove to avoid.

"You get dry gangrene from things like malnutrition – diseases like diabetes, faulty arteries – they're responsible for a drop in nutrients being supplied to tissues. Bacteria have a lesser part to play here, which hopefully, means that it'll spread slower, if we treat him quickly that is." explained Owens as he continued to examine the man's other leg. He straightened his back momentarily, allowing for a laboured breath to escape him. "But I'm no doctor, guys. This fella needs some heavy hitting antibiotics right now – that's about all I can advise. If he's got any other internal injuries," Owens shut his eyes and massaged his tired brow, "I don't have a fucking clue as to what we can do."

"What do you think happened to him?" questioned Dom.

Owens bit his lower lip and bowed over his limp study, in order to inspect the man's chest and neck next. "Don't know. Could be wretches. Could've been beaten up. Could've been reopened wounds."

"You think he was being taken to be tortured?" asked Dom again.

Owens shook his head. "Guy was already tortured,"

"But why was one prisoner being guarded by an escort?" came Marcus' voice, latching onto Dom's line of logic. "They coulda just shot him,"

"Maybe he was an important fella." surmised Owens. "Maybe they needed him for something,"

"Better _be_ important," grumbled Marcus, "for us to risk our necks like that."

"You're sure he's not one of yours, right?" spoke Dom, turning to Velko, speculating that the injured man may have been part of Velko's missing unit.

Velko shook his head. "Never seen him before."

Owens stood up and moved towards his seat. He pulled out a small rag from underneath him and started wiping his hands slowly. "Well, there's nothing more we can do until we get back to camp. He's breathing – a little laboured – but still breathing." He looked around at his companions, studying each one in turn. "You fellas alright?"

"Nothing some sleep couldn't cure," offered Dom, trying to play down recent events. He was quite aware that any rest tonight would be plagued by unsightly nightmares of some of the things they had just heard and witnessed. But then again, dreams devoid of agitating images were a rarity – and he had his own methods of reconciling with them.

Owens diverted his gaze towards Marcus who only shrugged nonchalantly and gave a slight nod. _Things are as good as they're going to get_, the look seemed to say. He then turned to Velko, who was busying himself by wrapping a leather bandage around his forearm, enveloping the skin with layer after layer of the thick material. He gave Owens a slight smile – _all was okay, he was just a little shaken_.

At that moment, Marcus, who had been seated directly across from the younger man, issued a penetrating gaze onto the leather bandage, and then caught Velko's eyes, frowning as he did so. Velko stared back – a trifle uncomfortably – and quickly hid his arm behind a concealing curtain that was his jacket. The subtle and wordless exchange went by unnoticed by their comrades, although the Sergeant grew even more troubled than usual.

The remainder of their weary journey back to camp was blanketed by silence, save for the metallic jingling of their equipment and the occasional acceleration of the APC's engine. No one disturbed the settling quiet – for no amount of discourse could soothe their unspoken anxieties.

* * *

**Tergus mountain range**

**20 miles from Elingrad**

They stepped out of the APC quite spent and exhausted; but they dutifully carried the wounded man for three foot-slogging miles – each taking turns in twos to shoulder his weight. Their trek back to camp was particularly grueling; the terrain was a little rugged and slightly inclined. When finally, their destination rose up to meet them through a dusky haze, Owens' fellow companions flocked to their aid, and eased the small company's human burden, allowing for their weary shoulders and arms to rest. Leaving the exhausted party to tend to their tiredness, the others gently carried the unconscious man into a small cabin, into which Mae and a younger man entered, shutting the door on inquisitive minds and peering eyes.

Marcus made as if to follow the pair and their new patient, but Owens held a restrictive arm in his path. "Better to leave him to them," he directed. "He's in good hands."

The Sergeant scowled. "He could know something we don't. Something important,"

"He's in good hands, Fenix," repeated Owens, "He needs care, not an interrogation."

For a brief moment, Marcus debated on whether he should maintain his persistence or allow for the matter dissolve entirely. His rationale contested that their recent addition wasn't going to live much longer – a day or two at the most – and that it was imperative that any information in his keeping shouldn't be allowed to expire along with him. But his own humanity recognized that the wounded man should be permitted to die peacefully, and amongst caring faces. It was then, and with grudging reluctance, that Marcus relented, nodding slowly at Owens before walking away into his own cabin.

As the wooden door creaked open, he saw Dom in one corner already quite settled in for the night. He had strewn his protective, bulky vest to one side, but kept his weapons close – and within arm's length – just as always. Upon Marcus' entrance; quiet though it was, Dom stirred, opening heavily-lidded eyes.

"As much as I want to discuss what happened tonight," mumbled Dom lazily, "I think I'd rather wait until morning."

Marcus' mouth contorted into a small smirk. "Works for me." He began the laborious task of removing his holstered belt, and then started to work on the various pieces of clothed defensive plates that constituted parts of his armor.

"Where's Owens?"

"I don't know – filling everyone else in, would be my guess." replied Marcus. "I don't think he's gonna be getting much sleep tonight,"

Dom yawned, belatedly covering his mouth with an enclosed fist. "Why do I get the feeling that you're going down the same road too?"

Marcus sat down – his armor completely detached – and slowly removed his tattered and worn boots. "Sleeping is easy – when you got nothing on your mind,"

"And what's troubling you then?" questioned Dom, his words already merging wearily together into a slur. It wouldn't be long until his thoughts followed suit and would make their way into the domain of dreams.

Marcus regarded Dom for a moment, watching in silence as the younger man began to descend into the blissful unconsciousness that was sleep. Once again, he felt the cold touch of envy – his own turbulent thoughts poked and tugged at him relentlessly, hell-bent on denying him a few peaceful hours of rest. The young Santiago, however, seemed to come equipped with an _off _switch that he could flip and control at will; something that barricaded himself within; temporarily safe from the grip of dark memories.

Marcus shrugged the jealousy off in the next instant, and sat quietly in his corner, brooding over current occurrences. Strangely enough, although he was trying to assemble a rudimentary profile of this new breed of Locust he and the others had just witnessed, another concept sought to steal the limelight away entirely. He found his mind bouncing back the image of what he had glimpsed earlier inside the APC. Specifically, Velko's arm. It emphasized how little the Sergeant really knew about the younger man, and was disturbed by the fact that he wasn't in any position to confirm or deny any suspicions. But then, Owens' words would take shape once more, reminding him that Velko's business was his own, and therefore, his own to divulge. As long as the boy didn't pose any threat to their survival, then Marcus was to let him be. But then, pondered the Sergeant, how were they to judge what was, or wasn't a danger without being in the know?

Frustrated by this circuitous thinking, he rose and started to make his way outside when he nearly collided with a bulky physique in the doorway.

"Jesus, Cole," muttered Marcus, a little surprised. "Ever thought about knocking?"

Cole smiled and held his hands up haplessly. "Didn't wanna disturb your beauty sleep, baby,"

Marcus grunted, and jerked his thumb in the direction of his sleeping friend. "Dom's the one who's gonna wake up all refreshed and pretty,"

"No shut-eye for you tonight, huh?"

"Doesn't look that way."

"That makes two of us," remarked Cole. "You wanna take a walk?"

"The campgrounds aren't that big, Cole."

"It'll be a short one, then."

The pair stepped out into the darkness, and were instantly embraced by the cool night air. The steady chirping of crickets rose in their ears, and they were grateful for this temporary respite from the incessant churning of gunfire and its oppressively silent aftermath. Marcus regarded Cole from the edge of his vision, and noticed that his usually cheerful demeanor had wilted somewhat, only to be replaced by the unmistakable cloud of worry.

"Something up?" asked Marcus, partially hoping that this small gesture of concern would not evolve into a lengthy conversation. And most of all, not a soul-searching one at that.

"Spoke to Owens a few minutes ago. Told me what happened." began Cole. He looked to Marcus questioningly. The gaze didn't garner a response, so he continued. "He told me 'bout this freaky-ass Locust you guys saw. Told me it had quite the mouth on him."

Marcus exhaled heavily. "That's an understatement."

Cole let out a dry laugh. "I figured that much."

"You came to me to confirm that statement?" asked Marcus, a little curious.

Cole shrugged. "Kinda. I mean, Marcus, Owens doesn't handle Delta squad's business and we don't handle his. You know? I just wanted the word from _you_. What kinda shit _really_ went down there? And you got a good reason to put our lives in this guy's hands, don't you?"

In the waning moonlight, Marcus smiled. Cole was never really one to question orders. Not from command, control, or from his Sergeant for that matter. That was Baird's job – and _he_ obviously took it to heart. Cole on the other hand, was the optimist of his party – and had figured that his duties lay in maintaining a degree of enthusiastic morale. He'd done it during his thrashball days, and it hadn't waned during the two wars that Sera had faced either. To have summoned the nerve to bring up such queries meant _something_ here. It meant that Cole felt uneasy. And when that happened, it was time to pay some attention.

"I trust Owens," started Marcus, "with my life. Can't say the same for some of the others here, though." he admitted.

"Yo, that's what I'm talking 'bout, man. Some of the others here? They're looking at Baird and me with those shifty eyes. They don't trust a single one of us, Marcus," confessed Cole.

"Can you blame 'em?" brought up Marcus.

Cole halted in place and considered this new perspective. He looked back up at his Sergeant and spoke slowly. "Nah. I suppose I couldn't. Woulda done the same thing in their shoes. But we ain't the same – and all of us here seem to know that – 'cept for Owens and you. There's too much tension here, man. Can cut it with a knife. And if I know anything about this kinda tension, it's that things can get _real_ hairy, _real _fast. I think that as soon we know what we need to know, we should haul ass and leave this joint."

"Owens is an asset, Cole. His resources are an asset. I can't make snap judgments just yet," said Marcus.

"Look man, I ain't telling you how to do your job. You're good at what you do. I'm just telling you that – that I got a bad feeling 'bout this place. Like staying here too long's gonna cost us,"

Cole had good instincts, realized Marcus – and some facets of it seemed to mirror his own. These were troubling aspects to consider; Velko's story being one of them. And now Cole's suspicions appeared to hasten the tide of his anxieties even more. "What does Baird think? About all this, I mean." asked Marcus, slightly curious.

Cole laughed. "Baird thinks this detour's _bullshit_. But you know how he gets. He thinks everything's bullshit. Confiding in him is gonna start this long-ass rant, know what I mean? I don't wanna even _go_ there. He even thinks that blonde kid's gonna swipe some of his stuff," the large man shook his head upon mention of Baird's paranoia. "Not exactly the go-to guy this time. Not Baird."

Marcus laughed, and then grew serious again. "You know what, Cole? I think maybe you might have something here. Thing is, we can't just leave until we know where we're going to."

"We gotta start somewhere, man. Is Control on the up-and-up 'bout all this shit?" suggested Cole.

A spark of an idea flickered across Marcus' eyes. Maybe Cole was right after all.

* * *

"Control, this is Delta, do you read?" came in Marcus' hushed voice into his communicator. This secluded spot of the campgrounds was quite close to the cabins should any sign of danger arise, but it was isolated and inconspicuous enough to hold this sort of conversation out of earshot of its other inhabitants.

Amidst the consistent sounds of chirruping crickets, he heard the all-too-familiar noise of static across his earpiece. After several moments, the mechanical hissing cleared, only to be replaced by a voice he was well acquainted with.

"_Roger that, Delta. You're coming in pretty clear_." issued the lieutenant's voice. "_Any info on the missing unit?_"

"Something like that," responded Marcus, not quite sure how he would broach the topic of Velko, and Marcus' own suspicions about the younger man. The small measure of information that he had withheld from Control now seemed to him quite a colossal beast altogether. It was going to be hard enough to bring up such subjects without having to maneuver around his suppression of knowledge as well. _One thing at a time_, he decided. "There was a Goran Vujacic on the team, right?"

"_Yes_," said Anya instantly.

"What about a Sebastian Velko?" he asked.

"_Marcus, you got the list during the briefing, didn't you?_" her voice seemed tired, and he wasn't sure how much longer her mood would remain tensile for. "_There's no Sebastian in this group; not to my knowledge anyway_."

"Check with Hoffman," suggested Marcus, fully aware that this advice may not sit well with Anya. It obviously appeared to allude to military hierarchy, and that she lay more than just a couple rungs below the top of the ladder. It also seemed to hint at mild incompetence, and a lack of faith in her abilities. In actuality, Marcus thought none of these things – his opinion of Anya was quite high, on various fronts – but he was obligated to double-check such facts, and he hoped that she recognized the earnest nature of his request.

There was a moment of silence, before he heard a soft sigh. "_Alright, Marcus. Just give me a few minutes._"

He grinned in the dark, relieved to be spared a woman's wrath.

Four minutes later, she was back on the line, and her tone was quite deadpan; as if she had foreseen the outcome of Marcus' inquiry. "_Hoffman says there was no Sebastian Velko, Marcus. And he wants me to convey a message too_,"

_Here it comes_, braced Marcus before Anya continued. "_Stop horse-shitting around this Velko business and find out where the hell those soldiers are_. _Uh – or you'll be looking for an alias to tag onto your sorry ass too._"

It sounded odd; coming out of her mouth the way it did. It lacked Hoffman's harsh drawl, and certainly his heated emotions as well. The effect would have been almost comical, had Marcus maintained a better opinion of the Colonel. But now, the words shortened his already short temper. "Let me guess," growled the Sergeant. "His words?"

"_Of course_."

Just then, something within his hackneyed thoughts seemed to click into place. _Alias. Damn, why hadn't he thought of it before?_ "Anya, look, you gotta do me a favour. Search the Gears' database for a Sebastian Velko,"

Her patience was beginning to slacken. "_Marcus, you don't really have time for this. __**We**__ don't have time for this. What's this got to do with anything?_"

"Anya, please. I got nothing else to go on."

"_Why is it so important?_" she asked again.

"I know this isn't gonna be what you wanna hear, but I can't really elaborate just yet. I just have a gut feeling that this Velko guy's important. There's more to him than meets the eye."

Marcus was never one to beg, recognized Anya. This much persistence must have some solid reasoning behind it. "_Alright. But you owe me one, okay?_"

"Sure, anything you say."

"_How far back do you want me to go? In the database, I mean. If you can narrow it down, that's going to be helpful – to you and me both_,"

"Try in the last three to five years. If that gets you nowhere, try ten years back."

"_Okay. And I suppose this is between you and me, huh?_"

"What else?"

"_Give me half an hour_." And with that, she went offline.

* * *

**25 minutes later**

Marcus lay seated on a rotting tree stump; trying to catch a glimpse of glittering stars through the branches of the giant firs that tried hard to mask the sky from view. Boredom and the lack of fruitful preoccupations were never really a problem for him; his mind could switch from white to black, sea to shore, round to square quickly. He could perform generally complicated math problems in his head, list – in chronological order – the number of Chairmen in the COG, and even recall some of the ground-breaking legislature the Council of Sovereigns had passed. Math and politics weren't part of a much-revered pastime of his, but they were useful components to keeping boredom from turning into something much darker and desperate. He'd been clever that way, using whatever mundane yet thought-consuming ideas to occupy himself. He had needed it, even thrived off of it during the five years he had been imprisoned. It was a powerful armament he'd wielded to keep insanity at bay.

And so he sat, in somewhat modest calm, trying to discern the trio of constellations that shimmered above him. He'd just remembered the identity of the first when his earpiece crackled to life and disrupted all other thought.

"_Marcus?_" came in Anya's voice. "_You there?_"

"Got no place else to be," he remarked.

"_I...uh – might have something for you here_," her voice seemed edgy, tense. As if the information she was handling was something she had trouble comprehending or a hard time believing. Or both.

"Yeah?" he asked, impatient for her to continue.

"_There are records of a Sebastian Velko in the database. You were right, I had to go about ten years back to find it. He's dead, Marcus. Private Velko was KIA when he was fifteen years old_." Here, she paused, waiting for her words to take effect.

_Son of a bitch_, thought Marcus. _The goddamn son of a bitch_. "So who's the fucker we got here then?"

"_I don't know, Marcus. That's something you'll have to figure out for yourself_." And before Marcus could resign himself to that fact, "_But I can tell you this; when I ran his name through the database, there were a few files – about two or three – I was denied access to,_"

_Ah, hell._ _This was getting better and better by the second_, he thought morosely. He was getting answers that led to more questions – each query spreading with the ease of an infectious contagion. "I'm afraid to ask why," ventured Marcus hesitantly.

"_Well, there's nothing to help or heed you either way. I could ask the Colonel, but I doubt he's going to be very receptive,_" stated a somewhat apologetic Anya.

"Yeah," he agreed.

There were a few seconds of silence – a feature of Marcus that Anya was already accustomed to. She knew that behind his taciturn nature lay plenty of loud thoughts; his mind was ever-running, thinking, processing, strategizing.

She waited patiently in quiet, before electing to resume their conversation. "_You're not completely out of cards, Marcus_," she comforted. "_These things have a way of working out._"

"The last time I heard someone say that was right before E-Day." came his tart response.

He heard a swift breath of air being released through his earpiece. The sigh was an indication that he was inadvertently wearing away her patience, bit by bit. He didn't want his frustrations to permeate through to her– after all, she probably had a lot to deal with on her end as well. "Anya – forget it. You did what you could, I'll handle the rest from here on."

It was his version of an apology, she recognized. And she wasn't petty enough to reject it. "_Okay. If you come up with anything else, let me know – I might be able to help_."

"Thanks, Anya."

"_You still need to fill me in on what's happening so we can put together a report, though. Hoffman wants to know what you've learned so far. And he's got new orders for you_." she requested.

_Ah, so here was where the going would get considerably sticky_, thought Marcus – slightly apprehensive about what he was prepared to reveal, and what he was prepared to withhold. Lies reminded him too much of his own father; who had perfected the art of deceit – through the consistent utterance of an everyday white lie to those that were potentially life-altering. The recognition brought to mind the fate of his mother, and his father's countenance following that incident. It bore sadness, to be sure, but the words that issued forth from his mouth seemed counterfeit, contrived, practiced. Furthermore, not only was the deed a heartless one, but it was an insult to Marcus' intelligence; his father must have thought him a fool to be taken in by such lies.

It was more than mere disservice, it was a betrayal of sorts, and to do the same here, in this instant, created in him a pressurized canister of guilt.

Maybe now was the time to do some truth-telling.

* * *

He told Anya about their recent excursion, providing many details as to what information they had gleaned through their reconnaissance mission. He also told her about the human prisoner they had managed to extract from the small troop of Locust and provided her with the specifics regarding his condition. The one feature he had omitted from this quick debriefing was Owens' identity. The general had wanted to remain incognito – even towards his own. And seeing as how the revelation of this news could only harm more than it could aid, Marcus had to play ignorant. And, strangely enough, the clutches of his guilt did not extend into this territory.

Hoffman and Anya seemed satisfied with these fresh developments; it wasn't significant progress, but it was progress nonetheless. Marcus hadn't furnished them with details pertaining to the new breed of Locust though, seeing as how the details were too few to start with. Through their discourse, the Sergeant had hinted at the possibility that the Locust Queen was quite alive; the Locust didn't seem advanced enough to organize their armies, let alone strategize tactical runs such as scouting or recon missions. But as usual, Hoffman was quick to dismiss this notion – something Marcus chalked up to the detrimental nature of stupidity or to an obscene amount of faith that the Colonel had in his dwindling resources.

He deftly swerved from further discussion on the topic, avoiding an impending confrontation between the two ranks. Hoffman seemed just as eager to oblige, and proceeded to delineate fresh orders to Marcus' squad. The Colonel instructed that a visitation to a military hospital in Montevado was needed in order to compare and contrast any information they had assembled previously. Of course, their primary objective to gather data on the fate of the Locust still remained as such – and should any impromptu developments arise that were linked to it, they were to take precedence over their recon mission at the hospital.

Then finally, and in typically bland, yet stern, military fashion, Hoffman directed Marcus to _get to it_. The ball was now in his court and Hoffman did not anticipate, no, he would not _tolerate_, failure. By then, however, Marcus had already tuned out Hoffman's colourful threats. After all, if things were as bad as Marcus was beginning to imagine, he would consider himself lucky to endure tantrums à la Hoffman – seeing as how that would mean that he was alive, and not partaking in nature's decomposition process.

Within the span of an hour, both parties had signed off, one considerably more exhausted than the other. Now, imagined Marcus, sleep would come a little easier – ongoing banter had a way of tiring him more than physical actions ever did. As he approached his cabin, he saw a figure emerge from the tree-cover. He gazed at it – squinty-eyed, trying to evaluate whether the ghostly silhouette was friend or foe, his trained sight quickly recognized the lanky build of Velko. The man slouched along as he ambled towards the camp, his face masked of emotion.

Deliberately, purposely – and seeped in anger – Marcus strode towards the younger man. For an instant, Velko stood there in a quandary of surprise and fear; observing the Sergeant near him little by little. Then the mask was back on, and Velko stood his ground and braced himself.

His emotionless demeanour didn't subside even as Marcus grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and pushed him roughly up against the gnarled trunk of a redwood tree.

"Owens ain't here to save your hide this time boy, so you'd better start talking. _Now_." growled Marcus menacingly.

Velko regarded the piercing blue eyes that bore into him, and then looked away. "I don't need Owens to fight my battles."

"Yeah? Well, that's not what I heard. Seems like you got him on your side; but I got a feeling he isn't on the up and up when it comes to what you used to be." retaliated the Sergeant.

"And what was that?" hissed Velko, as Marcus pushed his forearm threateningly against his exposed throat.

"_Dead_."

Whether it was the word or the act that charged the younger man's animation, Marcus didn't know, but in the next moment, he found himself thrust away, saved from a backwards stumble only through his own physique and experience in melee combat.

He wasn't given much of a chance to analyze further, as Velko stepped forward and threw a swift fist in the direction of his face. Had the blow landed where it was intended to strike, its effects could have been bone-crunching. But at the last second, Marcus dodged to one side, feeling a short rush of air blow past his face as the quick-moving appendage flew past him. At the same instant, Marcus reached out to grab his opponent's forearm in an attempt to twist it behind his back, but through an uncanny sixth sense, Velko seemed to have anticipated the move and spun his body around so as to face Marcus once again.

In the fleeting time that was allowed to him, Marcus wondered at the man's skilled movements. In basic training, only the essentials of such hand-to-hand combat were taught; recruits were hurried through this initiation process in order to churn out soldiers to fill in the rapidly-dwindling numbers out in the battle field. The rest of their education ensued during direct confrontation with their enemy. Which made Marcus acutely aware of one thing for certain: whatever Velko, or whoever-he-was had learned, he hadn't learned in Basic.

But despite this apparent aptitude, Marcus was soon one step ahead him. His body and mind worked in fluid and honed conjunction – he was learning, adapting his offensive rhythms to counter the barreling assaults that Velko was unleashing. Schooled though the younger man appeared to be, he lacked the calmer and steadier motions of his older foe. Marcus was a natural-born fighter. And to cap it all off, the Sergeant certainly wasn't lacking in practice. Contrastingly, Velko was rash, impulsive. He was quick to give into his anger, his movements following suit in quite deadly yet easily-anticipated actions. A series of badly-timed punches was all Marcus needed, in order for him to take advantage of the younger man, eventually subduing Velko to his knees; a vice-like grip on his windpipe ever-ready to curtail any sudden movements on Velko's part.

"Just tell me who the fuck you really are," he asked, angry and definitely worn out. He had come out on top of the sudden altercation, but given a worse day, and more exhaustion, Marcus wasn't sure if he could be this lucky.

"_No_," breathed out Velko's reply – hoarse and hollow.

"Who are you protecting? _The Locust?_" barked Marcus.

His bleak predicament notwithstanding, Velko managed to eke out a raspy sound – a noise that Marcus soon recognized to be a shortened laugh. "You think running out of air is _funny?_" he demanded, three parts angry and one part baffled.

Another abrasive chuckled ensued. _The kid's got a vile sense of humour_. " – ocust," came out the raucous voice, " – elping...Locust – funny,"

Marcus wanted to tighten his hold, but by this time, he was aware that Velko was more prepared to exhibit this morbid, comedic display rather than talk. His desire to strengthen his restrictions on the younger man's conduit to air, however, didn't recede. He could just abandon him here, with a painful reminder that the ground Velko chose to walk on wasn't just shaky anymore – it was beset with tremours.

But Marcus had seen enough violence to last him several lifetimes, and this act seemed too exorbitant a price – even if it was solitary and non-lethal in nature. Surprising himself, and then Velko, he relinquished his clutch – his captive stumbling forward onto hands and knees, lungs gasping for the sweetness of much-need air.

Marcus considered the younger man in frustration and a rapidly-developing sense of apathy. _If he wasn't gonna talk, then he wasn't gonna talk._ That was all there was to it, and there were others things now that needed his attention. He started to move past Velko, quite indifferent to his discomfort when a gravelly voice called out from behind him.

"I _am_ Sebastian Velko," it croaked, its scratched tone being ironed out through speech.

Marcus stopped, but didn't turn around. It would take more than the usual _I'm-sticking-to-my-story_ crap to warrant any consideration from him.

"Our unit was hit by a couple mortars," he continued, "Goran Vujajic was a private in our squad. He was sixteen, and I was fifteen."

Marcus turned around slowly without a word; the corners of his eyes crinkling with suspicion. The Sergeant's skepticism was evident – Velko had caught his attention, but Marcus wasn't fool enough to forgive and forget. At least, not yet. He waited for the Corporal to continue.

"Everyone died. Everyone except me. I got slammed good, but I could move. And before they could hit us again, I got one set of COG tags. Goran's. The second assault was – well, more accurate. I don't remember anything after – woke up in the ICU unit of St. Harper's," elaborated Velko, grimacing visibly during this verbal recollection.

"So they just mistook you for Goran, is that it? Just a case of mistaken identity?" queried Marcus, laying the bait for Velko. Marcus knew that it was a case of anything but mistaken identity – especially given Anya's recent findings, yet he wanted to gauge how truthful Velko was willing to be.

Velko shook his head as he rose, getting up stiffly onto one knee and then the other. "Not really. My face was pretty much burned off – that's what the doctors said. Wanted to know if there was anyone I wanted to contact – family, you know. There wasn't. I was stuck in the hospital for months – they said it was just weeks – but man, it felt long enough."

The younger man then looked around the darkened campgrounds, as if the plants and trees were spies – eager to eavesdrop and quick to squeal. "Uh – not that I'm not enjoying this, but can we talk somewhere else?" he asked, turning to Marcus.

"There's no one here," remarked the Sergeant, partly for the sake of being disagreeable. It had been a rough night.

"I just wanna be indoors."

Marcus scrutinized him for several moments before relenting – stone-faced. He directed the younger man into his cabin. On seeing Dom's sleeping form within, Velko paused, and gave Marcus a hesitating glance.

"I mean someplace indoors and _private_," he reiterated.

Velko motioned towards the Gear's prostrate figure; Dom was curled up – his knees brought up to his broad chest and his back against the wall. Every few seconds, a spasmodic snore – that hadn't quite decided whether it wanted to be a snuffle or a threatening snort – would be emitted from his blocked sinus cavities.

"What _about_ him?" asked Marcus, his tone cautionary. _If you got a problem with him, you got a problem with me_. _Even if he __**is**__ asleep_. "The only things that'll wake him up are mortar shells."

Velko shook his head. "Never mind." He walked towards a small table at one end of the room and sat down alongside it. Marcus followed, his gait born down by weariness.

"So what do you wanna know..." began Velko, his tone bland, the query unenthusiastic and uninviting.

"Beginning's always good," suggested Marcus. This voluntary disclosure of information threw him off balance somewhat; the kid had clammed up on threats, withstood a rough hiding and had laughed when his air had been cut off. _What gives_, he wondered?

"I uh – this isn't real easy to tell,"

Marcus shrugged, quite indifferent to civilities now.

Velko caught the gesture, absorbed its meaning, and proceeded. "Doctors became pretty sparse – after the accident and E Day, of course. I vaguely remember someone mentioning that Montevado was being shelled – Nemacysts maybe. Or mortars. Used to be that every night I'd hear air-raid sirens, but a couple weeks later, they stopped,"

"St. Harper's isn't in Montevado," recognized Marcus.

"That's a matter of opinion," explained the younger man, "St. Harper's is on the Timgad-Montevado border." He looked towards Marcus, understanding finally that this wasn't an innocent inquest. He was cross-checking his story _in situ_, comparing Velko's accounts to that in his own cerebral mainframe. He was waiting for him to _slip up_; waiting for a lie, waiting for the chance to expose it. _Did the Sergeant revel in humiliation, then?_ A rudimentary observation of the older man indicated otherwise; his face seemed drawn, the battle-inherited indentations on his face were more pronounced than ever. But ultimately, it was his eyes that had convinced him. The whites that encompassed the icy-blue gaze were tainted by a faint reddish hue. _No bullshit this time_, it seemed to say.

Velko wasn't quite fearful of him, but there was no denying the fact that Marcus – his _being_, not rank – commanded respect. The persona oozed out involuntarily, it seemed, but that didn't imply that Marcus didn't employ it. He'd be foolish not to. Not quite up to probing deeper into his own reactions and tendencies towards the Sergeant, he managed to come up with a basal recognition: he sure as hell didn't want to be the straw that broke the camel's back. Seeing as how the camel in question was Marcus Fenix.

" – happened after?" came the graveled baritone, causing disarray amongst Velko's thoughts.

"What?"

"What happened after – at the hospital," repeated Marcus.

In an effort to catch up quickly, Velko continued. "I wanted to get discharged. Face still looked like the elephant man, but hey – I was still breathing, right? Left leg and arm were pretty shot too. The nurse used to come in and tell me that they couldn't operate just yet – told me something about paperwork they were behind in. Load of _bullshit_ if you ask me. There were no other patients in that ward, let alone my own _room_. Seems like being fifteen typifies you as hormonal and stupid," Marcus grunted, in some form of empathy. Or maybe he was just impatient. Velko carried on. "Then one day – I'll never forget it – this doctor strides in. He looked pretty beat; like he'd been overworked. So, he comes in and tells me that he can fix me up. Face and all. Get me looking like a person again," Velko paused, reminiscing.

"I'm not exactly dumb, but when someone says something like that – well, hope has a way of blinding us, I think. I didn't even stop to consider how rare my situation was."

"Rare? Ain't that their job? To fix people up?" questioned Marcus.

"Yeah, but think about it. Since when did the COG have the time _and_ the resources to resurrect invalid soldiers? I mean, I was a pretty lost cause. There's the surgery, the pain meds and then the rehabilitation. That's a fucking big investment for a fifteen-year-old _private_. Makes more sense to fix up someone with less intense injuries, doesn't it? But back then, I didn't give it a second thought." he exhaled, still quite unable to forgive his stupidity.

Velko went on. "So he asks me if I wanna accept his offer, and I say _yeah, I do_. And I'll tell you something: I'd been badgering the staff to discharge me for over two weeks. I didn't wanna die in a freakin' hospital – strange as it sounds. So anyway, this doctor comes in, does his hocus-pocus with the paperwork, and the next day, I'm _gone _– outta that place." He snapped his fingers for effect.

"Where'd they take you?" Marcus leaned forward in his seat.

"I thought it was another hospital. Or a clinic. But I rode in the back of an ambulance, man; couldn't see a damned thing." Velko's brows still furrowed, attempting to recollect aged images. "The thing is – it doesn't matter if the place was a staged hospital, or warehouse, or whatever. What matters was that they had outpatients who weren't there to get better."

The statement fazed Marcus for the briefest of instants before he regained his composure. But privately, his thoughts accelerated to a near-frenetic pace. Could Velko be talking about the facility he and the others had checked out almost a year ago? Could Velko have been a patient at New Hope? _No, that was unlikely_, his logic concluded. Marcus remembered the grotesque and disfigured Sires that he and Dom had encountered. _If that were true, Velko would have been a lot more screwed up than he already was_.

But he could leave no stone unturned. "Was the facility called New Hope?" he asked, simultaneously looking for a spark of recognition in the Corporal's eyes. There wasn't one.

"I wouldn't know. When I got out, I tried asking some of the others in my squad about it – even our sergeant. He didn't know a thing," Velko replied.

"What did they do there?" questioned Marcus, "You see any funny-looking wretches in tanks or anything?"

Velko jerked his back slightly in incredulity. "Even if there were any – I wouldn't know." And then more slowly, "Wretches in tanks? You mean the COG were studying wretches?"

"Never mind," muttered Marcus, reluctant to delve into an elaboration. "You ever met a doctor Niles Samson?"

The quizzical look on Velko's face was enough to tell him that he didn't.

Marcus leaned back, and shut his eyes in thought. Several moments ticked by, and Velko even began to wonder if he had finally fallen asleep. But the Sergeant's voice cut through the silence suddenly, letting Velko know that this inquest, or catechism, or whatever the hell it was, wasn't over.

"So what'd they do to you there? Strap you to a gurney and shoot you with steroids and shit?" he asked.

_You'd like that too, wouldn't you, you bastard_, thought Velko. "No." he replied. "Something a little worse than that."

Marcus' eyes opened slowly, waiting for Velko to proceed.

"I'm – how would you say it – _endowed_ with certain gifts. One part of my body, anyway."

It was Marcus' turn to sport _quizzical_. "What the hell do you mean: _endowed?_"

"It's – uh – look, it's easier if I just show you." With that, Velko turned his left arm palm upwards; wrist bent, and drew back the sleeve of his jacket with his right hand. The motion soon revealed a shadowed, exposed portion of darkened skin – and then, on closer scrutiny, the _lack_ of skin. Watching Marcus' observation with narrowed eyes, Velko reached for the kerosene lamp seated on the table, and brought it nearer – illuminating the indisputable sheen of metal underlying his torn skin.

"_Holy fuck_," mumbled Marcus, "what the hell did they do to you?" He couldn't take his eyes off of Velko's forearm.

"It's not so much of what they _did_ to me, it's more of what I _allowed_ them to do to me." said Velko quietly.

Marcus' gaze turned up to Velko, and then back to the disfigured appendage. If _disfigured_ was even the right word for it.

Once again, favouring actions instead of words, Velko carefully pressed down on the uncovered metal beneath his epidermis, bringing up a small panel. Within, lay what appeared to be thin, metal rods. He flexed the fingers of his left hand, causing the miniature poles to shift in accordance with his movements. "Metallic tendons," he said.

Marcus sat back upright, regarding the young man in a newer light. "They uh – got you strung up _all_ the way like that?" he gestured vaguely at Velko's person with both hands for effect. "Head to toe?"

Velko shook his head. "No. Just the left side – from my knee and upwards. And when they began it, all I had were some plates inserted where the bone couldn't regenerate. There were problems, incompatibility issues with wiring, tissues, my immune system. Couple months later, they put in some modifications. _Circuitry_ – to coordinate cerebral cognition with artificial ligaments. Least, that's what they said,"

"_Shit_," said Marcus, his incredulity spreading.

"There were several upgrades, Marcus," explained Velko, not sure if he was enjoying revealing all this or not. Whatever the case, he was certain that it had been a long time since Marcus had been surprised with something of _this_ nature – if he got surprised at all. "I guess right now, what you got before you – is your human equivalent of a JACK bot."

"Why'd you agree to do it?" queried the Sergeant, his face now crumpled into a mix of mild astonishment and uncertainty.

"Told me it was the only way I could return to who I was. Well, '_improved_' was the exact term. Then there's the Locust too. They got numbers on their side. We just had a little more than squat. Maybe the COG wanted to level the playing field a bit."

"But you?" asked the Sergeant again, "Why did _you_ do it?"

There was a pause.

"Maybe I got tired of being a statistic. I – I wanted to be stronger. Guess I wanted a reason to fear the Locust a little less."

_Of course_, wondered Marcus, _but that didn't mean every vengeance-filled soldier volunteered to turn their bodies into walking computers_. "The Locust ain't fighting a technological war," he began, his voice tapering off.

"Do you really think that's all I can do?" commented Velko, letting out an uncomfortable chuckle. "I mean, after what you've _seen? Felt?_"

At that instant, his mind was bombarded with recollected images of the screaming Locust, and how Velko seemed unaffected by its cacophony. _He could take it_, is what he'd said earlier, before they had extracted the prisoner_. He could handle the noise, you grab the prisoner and go_. And then there was their altercation a short while ago. He was skilled, to be sure, _too_ skilled. Too strong. Strong enough to lift Grove – a man, double his size – off of his seat with ease.

Marcus shook his head, and cracked a broadening grin. "Son of a bitch,"

_Coming together for you, isn't it_, mused Velko impassively. He remained silent, watching Marcus' thoughts merge together into dawning coherence.

"That explains your name too, doesn't it; the Velko to Vujacic thing..." said Marcus, pointing loosely in Velko's direction, "Was it your choice? Or their's?" asked Marcus, referring to the COG.

"Mine."

"Why?"

"Family," responded Velko – a little averse to dive into the topic.

"You said you didn't have any," pointed out Marcus.

"I have an aunt – she raised me. I was under eighteen, Marcus. If they were gonna drive screws and bolts into my body, she'd have to sign off on it. And I know her. She wouldn't sign off. I needed to be dead." muttered Velko.

"It ain't right – you fooling your family into thinking you're dead. It's screwed up."

"Hey, don't you fucking get into all that psychobabble. It's my business."

The Sergeant frowned and let Velko's remarks role off of him. Emotional and complex explanations notwithstanding, Marcus chose not to pursue the matter, out of respect for personal privacy. There were things he needed to know, and then there were obviously some that were better left in hiding.

"Where'd they deploy you afterwards?" queried Marcus, reverting to COG affairs.

"That's not really for me to say."

"It is if I say it is." shot back Marcus.

"Is it now? Last I checked, there's only about five people who have access to that kind of information. I don't think any sergeants were on that list."

Marcus leaned back in his seat and massaged the tension in his neck. They'd gotten off to a rocky start, a relatively peaceable middle, and were approaching testy terrain again. In addition to Velko's other _redeeming_ qualities, he also had a terrific knack for guarding himself against everyone. Even his own. Grudgingly, Marcus has to admit that that was perhaps one of the few things he shared in common with this kid. It was inevitable then, that their personalities should clash in so ugly a manner. Someone would have to give up ground, realized Marcus. And as hard as it was for him to acquiesce, he knew that he ought to be the one to go first.

Taking a deep breath he began, "There's this installation. A military hospital or something. We were directed to go there. And given what you just told me, I was wondering –"

"– if that's where they put humpty dumpty together?" finished Velko, referring to himself.

Marcus chuckled, aware now that the tension was easing as intended. "Yeah. Something like that."

Velko looked away briefly, pensive. He then placed his attention back onto the Sergeant and frowned. "Is it in west Montevado?" he asked.

Marcus narrowed his eyes. "Yes. I don't know where exactly. We're gonna get specific directions later. How did you know?"

"A friend."

"_A friend? _What friend?"

"I can't really say."

Marcus scoffed. Brick wall again. His patience well was drying up – and fast. "_We're on the same fucking team_," he hissed, his tone dangerously low. "No matter what COG propaganda says; judicial systems, politics, contracts – all that shit is going away. _We're_ the endangered species this time. There're no lawyers 'round here who're gonna drag your butt into court for leaking information. If I knew something that'd help you, I damned sure tell you. 'Cos if _your_ ass in on the line, _my_ ass is on the line. Believe me, I'd rather it not be that way, but it's not like I got a choice."

"I told you a lot more than I was supposed to say already," scowled Velko, "and who says this is all about your ass, anyway? Did it ever occur to you that I might be saving someone else's ass? There's a lot more to this world than COG morals."

"_Locust_ morals, you mean?" growled Marcus before realizing that he may have gone too far.

"That's it. We're done here."

Marcus closed his eyes and sighed. "Okay. Okay. Forget what I said. Just forget it. Tell me about what's in west Montevado."

Velko stood up, scraping his chair on the wooden floor as he did so. His face looked dark and a trifle threatening. "I don't think you heard me, Fenix. _I'm done here_."

With that, he strode towards the door and walked out of the cabin.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note (12/29/09):**

**Many thanks to those who've patiently been keeping up with this story: Drake Hellion, Katimnai, Johnny Hellion, Necaberint, Pdiggins and others.**

**I've been trying to shorten my chapters somewhat, and in order to do that, I've split what would have been chapter 9 into two parts. It still might be obscenely long, but breaking a habit is a time-consuming process!**

**On another note, I was kinda bummed out by the fact that our xbox pulled a Microsoft and crashed on us recently. We didn't have the RRoD issue, but we did have an E74 error which – thankfully – is covered by the warranty. I'm currently exhibiting Gears of War withdrawal symptoms, so I've been spending a little more time writing; in order to feed the habit.**

**Anyways...thanks a bunch to those who put up with the story. I know it can get tedious at times, so I really appreciate the time you take to read and review.**

* * *

**The following day**

Dusk brought with it a menacing rain that evening.

With heavy, pounding fingers, it drummed on and around the APC, muting all inane chatter within. Anything worth saying needed to be decibels louder, and had the mood inside the APC been more jovial, perhaps they would have been more compliant towards the effort of shouting. But the dark, cold weather mirrored their moods; casting wet blankets on any sparks of optimism that had the spunk to materialize.

Grove had been driving the bulky vehicle in silence for about two hours now. Even Velko, who tended to get his sordid kicks through provocations of their driver, was quiet. He slept, his arms folded across his chest, head leaning against the interior wall. Or perhaps he just pretended to be asleep.

Baird sat opposite him, his eyes roving over his lancer. He'd detached part of the ammunition casing for cleaning, and this late-in-the-day inspection left the blond private irritable, seeing as how the metal covering refused to fit neatly back into place. Closer scrutiny revealed the obstruction to be a splinter lodged inside the casing's frame, sizeable enough to refuse to budge – despite the colourful epithets that spilled from Baird's mouth.

Dom lay one seat away from Baird; deafened to his colleague's current irascibility. Neither sleep nor a lancer occupied Dom's thoughts. Instead, a worn scrap of thick paper, a fading photograph, was held tenderly between thumb and forefinger. Images more than the motionless couple in the picture danced through his mind; the happy merging with the sad, the past merging with the future. He was well aware that such thoughts could lead to aberrations of sanity, but to deny them seemed more unnatural than ever. At times, his memory would tug him back to what he'd seen on Orsa; _Maria_, or whoever the hell that was who resembled her so. And during these times, he would peer askance at Marcus, wondering if the Sergeant had seen how madly that sight had affected him. And if Marcus had, Dom pondered as to whether this had reduced his opinion of him.

But Marcus gave little indication in either direction. Instead, he remained fixed in his seat; an immutable scowl plastered across his weather-worn face, frigid blue eyes staring at the metal-plated floor. Apart from the ill mood had blanketed his visage, little else could be gathered and assembled into sense.

This bothered the man, seated across from Marcus, the most of all.

Luton Jones, more commonly known as Jonesy amongst his friends back at camp, tried to hide his frustrated, fidgety fingers from curious eyes. His wet blond hair had been slicked back from the rain, and he'd left his collar turned up, even within the humid interior. His face bordered on gauntness, the cheeks only just beginning hollow inwards. Although he was middle-aged, his grey eyes seemed older, and his right eyelid drooped lower than his left, adding to an appearance of heavy sedation or constant exhaustion. He was neither, of course. He had earned the disfigurement through battle. In height, he was almost comparable to Dom. He did, however, differ substantially from him in build. To be more exact, in that aspect, he differed from Owens, Grove and _all_ of Delta squad.

Survival out in the wild neck of the woods that Jonesy called home meant conservation on many fronts. Rationing precious stashes of food was a more-than-familiar concept. Preserving energy was another. The two in conjunction had worked to reduce him to a leaner man; his metabolism was near-efficient, and he was composed of slender muscle and very little body fat. In contrast, the well-fed Gears (especially during the duration of their stay on Orsa), had consumed protein-based meals on a daily basis, and their muscles had had the luxury of _beefing up_ – as some of them liked to joke – into the bulkier profiles that were well-recognized amongst Gears and civvies alike.

But such distinctions were the least of Jonesy's concerns that evening. Aside from Baird – who lay seated on his right – Jonesy was the most observant of the small group, especially when it came to the nuances of emotion. He hadn't had the benefit of acquainting himself with Delta Squad, as Velko, Grove and Owens had. But then again, he'd initially been averse to it, and could only blame himself. The evening's excursion, not to mention Owens' strict orders, had now given him an opportunity to familiarize himself with these newcomers.

And Marcus had proved the toughest challenge by far.

Jonesy had deduced that Dom was an easy-going chap. Of course, he'd been marred by the loss of a loved one, but in these times, who hadn't? The only difference, and one of the things that made Dom actually _likeable_, was that the Corporal hadn't a single chip on his shoulders. There was cynicism, but no acidity. There was sadness, but no depression. There was optimism, but no overabundance of zeal. In short, he was the one who made the rookies, the greenhorns, the interlopers, feel comfortable, he helped them settle in. What was there _not_ to like?

And then there was Baird. He had proved to be Dom's antithesis. Baird's wit, being the only polite term Jonesy could utilize without getting more colourful, was caustic and acerbic. Best of all, people who believed that Baird never meant what he said, only exhibited their naivety. Baird certainly – and wholeheartedly – was very deliberate with such abrasive remarks, and did in fact take pride in this off-putting form of satire. And Jonesy had discovered that it would have been easier to dislike the cocksure soldier more than he already had if Baird really _was_ thick in the head, and if his overconfidence was merely his way of overcompensating for his lack of character. But the fact of the matter was that Clever Clogs was precisely that: _very_ good at what he did. There was no disputing that.

Amidst all of this, however, lay a little relief. Baird was more or less predictable. When it came to camaraderie and the perils therein, the Gear didn't have a thick enough hide to withstand criticism. He wasn't liable to break down in tears, oh no, not Baird, but he was quick to retaliate with cutting retorts of his own. Regardless of rank. And his oversized ego, being the double-edged sword that it was, meant that whatever Baird set out to do, he set out to do _well_ and to the best of his ability. Jonesy had figured that very little that Baird did could emerge out of left field, and stun him.

But Marcus was altogether a different kettle of fish.

It was as if the hardened Sergeant had chosen to permanently brand himself with a sullen cantankerousness. At times, he was excessively gruff when he didn't need to be, and then later on, he would inconsistently display kindness – even if such actions were indirect. From the little that Jonesy had heard from his own companions back at camp, Marcus Fenix had been instrumental in detonating the lightmass bomb near Timgad. And recently, he'd helped warn Jacinto of the Locust Queen's plans to sink the plateau, and had orchestrated the flooding of the Locust hollow. These were medal-worthy jobs; Marcus' accomplishments obviously merited more than just a few honorary titles, but here he was, coated in patches of sweat and dirt, worn and contemplative – a duty-ridden sergeant leading two of his men on an evening operation. Instead of issuing directives, he was taking them. If Jonesy was a betting kind of man, he'd have staked his life on the fact that Marcus had been playing the same role for many years; more years than Jonesy could count on his fingers alone.

_So what gives_, Jonesy wondered? _You're a bit of an enigma, aren't you, Sergeant? Why're you sticking your neck out for the COG on some wild goose chase, when you could've easily demanded a promotion and have stayed away from the battlefront altogether? What's your stake in all of this?_

But the truths to such questions lay far short of Jonesy's grasp, and stood on some indistinguishable precipice, threatening to jump if he came close.

There would be no answers tonight.

* * *

**18 hours ago**

Jonesy had curled up asleep against the wall, a rug of some sort serving as a blanket, while his head rested on a folded piece of cloth. Mae was seated on the only chair in the room, weary yet attentive to her injured charge that lay in the bed next to her. She had taken the man's pulse ten times in the past hour; shutting her eyes as she felt for faint throbs in his wrist through her calloused fingers. The near-mutilated body had been fighting, fighting, fighting. It had wrestled with brutality, trauma, infection, pain. And now, recognizing that it was in safe hands, its tenacity seemed to ebb, the _lub-dub_ of its heart reduced to an unhealthy, faint _pitter-patter_.

_It isn't fair_, thought Mae, _to have come so far only to quit_. _The body owed the soul more than that_.

She had wanted to tell the man this – but after having been awake for a mere fifteen minutes, he had slipped into deep unconsciousness once again. There were moments when she strongly believed that talking, the very sound of speech – even if it was one-sided, was powerful enough to bring the soul back from the thresholds of the afterlife. And that it was almost a rope of sorts; the only line that was tethered to the boat that carried away one's being. She'd believed that she would only have to tug at it persistently for it to be dragged back to familiar shores.

This night, however, the thief of faith had not only absconded with this man's hope, but hers as well. It had left her feeling hollow, dry, and so very _used_. But she was anchored by his side, with whatever remnants of confidence acting as flickering candles in the mounting darkness.

She hadn't even heard the cabin door creak open, and only looked up with mild curiousity as Owens strode quietly next to her. He gazed gravely at the damaged man, and placed a reassuring hand on Mae's shoulder.

Without looking at her, he spoke with quiet calm. "Meds working any?"

She shook her head.

"Mae, is he even responding to the penicillin?"

"I – well, I think he's gonna need something stronger. I've got him on some morphine, though. Which reminds me – we're down our last stash. I gave him some about an hour ago; it seemed to steady his breathing. But if I give him anymore...well, you know what'll happen. Not to mention that this stuff's precious."

"Use whatever you need." directed the man. "If we run out we can always get some more."

"How? Are the Locust opening up pharmacies now?"

He couldn't help but smile at the remark. "No...Pike says we might be able to make some of our own."

At this, Mae let out a dry chuckle. "Are you thinking of growing a poppy field, Nick? Harvest them for opium?"

"Maybe. Pike was saying something about mandrake roots. Said that it has similar effects. Didn't wanna ask him how he knew about this – I'm too afraid to. Giving him free reign to grow and create that kind of narcotic might mean that we'd be the happiest survivors to date though. Or maybe he thinks we can get the Locust hooked on it instead."

"That's not a half bad idea," grinned Mae.

At that instant, a soft – yet agonizing – groan ensued, evaporating the little humourous banter that remained. The sound appeared to heave out pain, only to inhale it back in again. Owens and Mae both turned their heads towards the source: the distraught man. Part of them anticipated wakefulness, while the other part was reluctant to fall prey to false hope. Apart from a subtle stirring of one of his wounded hands, however, he reverted to his motionless state; eyes shut, thoughts wandering through realms beyond their reach. Perhaps it was a blessing that consciousness eluded him.

After about a minute, Owens cast his eyes down; his countenance drawn and grave. "I'm only gonna ask this once, and don't hold back on me now. Is he gonna make it? Because if he isn't, just – just don't say anything."

A heavy silence followed.

Owens went on. "If...if we had more meds, would he be able to recover?"

"I don't know," came our Mae's hoarse voice. "Even if we had every antibiotic and painkiller at our disposal, and he died anyway, would it be that much of a consolation to you?"

"Yes," responded the man, "when you get to where I'm at, you'll take any consolation you can get."

"_When you get to where I'm at_?" repeated Mae, bitterness spreading over her face. "What makes you think I've never suffered loss? Or do you think I'm so cold as to be lacking in heart?"

Owens winced, recognizing the impact of his loose words too late in the day. "I'm sorry. I don't – I don't know what made me say it. I didn't mean any of it."

Her face softened, and she covered it with her hand. "It's alright. I've been walking on hot coals all night. Short fuse. You know." She went silent again and her body quivered.

It took him a second to realize that she was crying. "Mae," spoke Owens as he knelt beside her. "We did – we're _doing_ everything we can for him. It's better for him that it ends here rather than with the Locust. Now animals – they're good at dying alone, but we aren't. It's a terrifying, lonely business. He's in good hands. And I'm sure he knows it."

"He spoke, you know," said Mae, trying to swallow back a sob. She brushed away her tears roughly in an attempt to regain her composure. "Well, he groaned more than he spoke. He looked at me and Jonesy."

"What did he say?"

"He asked for a pen and paper. Jonesy brought them for him. I have it – " she paused, eager for the distraction, and rummaged underneath her chair amidst the medicinal paraphernalia, bringing out a sheet, " – here. He scribbled nonsense for a while; maybe he was trying to make his fingers work. The top part's illegible." She handed the leaf of paper to Owens and talked as he proceeded to read it. "The next couple bits I can make out, but very little of it makes sense."

The script certainly was haphazard. Of the letters that actually constructed words, sat wide gaps in between, making sentences difficult to decipher. And sometimes phrases moved up, and sometimes they moved down. There were even fractions of words that had overlapped. He'd stared at it for a solid five minutes before he spoke up. His blood ran cold at the text he had discerned.

"_Banshee_," whispered Owens.

Mae turned to him wearily, a confused expression on her face.

"_Banshee came...and took the girls away. For bread_," continued the old general.

The woman grimaced in distaste. Given another time and place, the words could have almost been humorous. But neither one of them was laughing now. "Delirium," she said, "he must've been delirious."

Owens looked up from the paper. "If you'd told me this yesterday, I'd have been inclined to agree with you."

"But not today?" ventured Mae tentatively.

"Not today."

"I hate to ask you this; but _why_?"

Owens swallowed. "There was a Locust. He was different from the rest. We saw him back at Tyro this evening."

"And you think he's this – "

" – banshee?" interjected the General, "Yes, I do." And then, as if he'd just remembered something, he pointed towards the wounded man. "Did you happen to notice his ears?"

She paused, trying to filter out relevant memories from obscurities that had been wrought by her tired mind. "Now that you mention it, yes, there's some dried blood on the outer part – look here," she gestured towards the man's right ear. Even in the weak lamplight, Owens was able to recognize the solidified, darkened hue of coagulated blood. Mae carried on. "I used to be just a nurse, Nick, not a doctor. I'd imagined that the bleeding must've been part of the...torture. The wounds have obviously clotted; there were more important injuries I had to tend to, so I dismissed it. You think it's something else?"

"I _know_ it's something else. When this..._banshee_ screams, he's liable to bust a few eardrums. Seems to me that this Locust's living up to its namesake," he rubbed his right ear, the painful memory still raw and visceral.

Mae's hands began to grow cold and clammy. She lowered her voice, "And what does taking women – the girls – have anything to do with this Locust?"

"Now _that_ – I don't know."

"You had better damn well figure it out, 'cos I don't like the sound of that. Not one bit." She placed her hands back in her lap, and fidgeted, trying to track sense from the injured man's scattered phrases. She wanted to believe that they were the product of a mind that was rapidly losing its grip on sanity; one that had indiscriminately interlinked memories from the past and the present. In fact, she'd very nearly convinced herself of this before Owens had analyzed the words himself and had shot that notion to hell.

"Maybe that part of his writings was induced by the fever," muttered Owens, noticing the effects the man's babbling scrawls were having on Mae. _Panicking in the midst of danger was bad enough, but panicking without a reason to was worse still_. He chastened himself. _Should've kept these thoughts to myself._

"It's a little too late for that, Nick," said Mae, with an uncanny mix of telepathy and severity. "And don't you try to keep anything from me. What else does the note say?"

He inhaled deeply and held out the note for the woman to see, pointing at specific portions of text. "Look here, see these three Os? I thought they were a bunch of zeros...something random – something he couldn't help doing. But then here they are again at the bottom of the page."

"Those aren't zeros," murmured Mae, "they're...letters. This one's a D. This is an O, and so's the third. '_DOO_'? What on earth does that mean?"

"Not '_DOO_', it's '_DOC_'." corrected the older man. "The way he writes his Cs – it's the same. His Os are different."

"Well, I'm glad that _one_ of us is a handwriting expert," said a sarcastic Mae. "This poor man wasn't exactly in the most stable of conditions when he wrote this. Okay, so he remembered the Locust you mentioned. Doesn't mean everything else he says is fact, though. If you ask me, this analysis is subjective at best. We shouldn't jump to conclusions yet. And – and even if he's right, what on earth does _DOC_ mean? Document? Doctor? Is it an abbreviation?"

Owens' shoulders drooped and he thrust one hand in his pocket; the scrutinized note hanging dejectedly by his side in the other. "Damned if I know," and then, in retrospect, "Huh. Maybe that's what we all are. Damned."

Mae rose from her seat and placed tired hands at her hips. All this speculation seemed to rub her the wrong way – it had manipulated her emotions in a manner that never suited her practical nature. "Don't be silly. Until we know for _certain_, we can't tell the others. Right?"

"We can't dismiss everything in this note, Mae,"

"You do what you think is best, Nicolas," she scowled at him, "but all I'm saying is that this camp is gonna get a hell of a lot more unruly if they know. And then – if they take in everything the wrong way, they'll want to move, they'll panic. We don't need that. _I_ don't need that. We've lost enough as it is."

Owens gave a reluctant nod. "I'll keep a lid on it," he promised, "but I've got to do a little investigating of my own. I'll have to tell Grove at least. And if I find that there's some truth to the matter, well then – "

" – the truth will out." finished Mae. "Fair enough."

She walked with the General back to the door of the cabin, and shut it behind him after he left. As she turned back to the unconscious man in her care, her eyes watered. But she valiantly quelled her anguish and resumed her duties by his side.

* * *

**14 Hours ago**

"Yo man, we've _got_ to get you away from scrapbooking. It ain't right."

Seated on a felled log, Baird raised his eyes from the reading material in his lap, and fixed a stare on the hefty Gear before returning to his book.

"My momma used to say that a picture's worth a thousand words – never knew what she meant until now," chuckled Cole. He sat down beside his friend and snatched the book away from him. "Ma-_an_! You _know_ you gonna get nightmares from this stuff, right? What's this supposed to be? Locust teeth?"

The blond man thrust a hand out to tug his notes back into his possession, but Cole held it away from him; trying to study the photographs and writings within. As his companion attempted to pull his sleeve, Cole swatted loosely at him, yanking his arm back.

"Whatchu doin' with photos of Locust teeth, huh?"

"Dammit, Cole! Just give it back!" insisted Baird, as he stretched his arms forward for another try.

The scene seemed placid enough. Dawn had just recently approached, and the dew sat fresh on the grass; waiting to disperse into the air come the late morning heat. The one oddity amidst the picturesque setting was the pair of bickering men, who were squabbling only as brothers could. Within moments, the larger of the two had broken into guffaws of laughter, and had leapt off the log, book in hand as his irritated companion lunged after him.

"Big babies," muttered the girl from the window of her cabin. But she was smiling. Her elbow rested on the wide windowsill, and she cupped her chin in her hand, eyes fixed on the unfolding brawl.

"What?" came a voice from behind her.

She turned a head a fraction and spoke. "Those two Gears. Cole and that other guy. Y'know, the one who thinks I was after his stuff the other day." She returned to gazing through the window.

"That would be Baird," Velko remarked, as he approached the girl's side and peered out with her. "Looks like Cole's giving him some exercise."

"He looks familiar..."

"Who? Baird?"

"Nah...the other one. Cole."

Velko grinned. "You mean you don't recognize him?"

She stared at him, giving him a quizzical look. "Should I?"

He laughed. "Yeah. You should."

She tried to scowl, but the frown twisted upwards as her face broke into a grin. She couldn't help it. "Alright already! Tell me – who _is_ he?"

"Nope. Figure it out yourself." Velko turned towards his bunk and lay down in it.

Frustrated, she searched for the nearest item within her reach, which happened to be box of matches, and flung it at him.

"Hey - _hey_!" he cried out, chuckling, "Temper, temper, Wildcat!"

"Who _is_ he? C'mon!" She leapt to his side and punched him playfully in the arm.

"Okay, okay! He used to play thrash-ball," said Velko as he gave her a pseudo-petulant stare and rubbed his arm. He squeezed his eyes shut, and crooned loudly, like a sports announcer for a boxing match. "_Number eighty-threeeee! The Cole Train!_"

"No _way_! Is it really him? Oh my god, I can't believe it's him! And this whole time – I had no idea!" She hit him in the arm again.

"Stop with the hitting already. So what're you gonna do? Run out there and get his autograph?" Velko winked at her and grinned. "Maybe you can auction it. Maybe deep down, the Locust are avid thrash-ball fans, and they'd let us win the war if we gave 'em Cole."

"I _wish_. My dad worshipped the Train. He wouldn't miss a game. It drove mom _nuts_." She flopped on the floor beside his bed and twiddled her fingers, preoccupied.

Velko drew his knees up and played with a tattered rubber ball, all the while studying the young girl's animated visage. These moments were few and far between. She had unwittingly retreated back into who she used to be, and possibly who she _should_ have been – a fifteen year old kid. She should be with people her age, she should be interested in boys, slumber parties, best friends, books, movies, rebellion; she should've been everything that she wasn't now.

The brief instances where she would wander into happiness almost inevitably shrunk, and by then, all paths led back to thoughts of war and death and grief. He could see it in her face now; a withering smile, a tightening of her brows and the hardening of her eyes. If he could, he'd always tried to prolong a pleasant memory – he'd try to stretch it out for what it was worth.

He turned to a side and propped himself up onto one elbow. "Did your dad go to any of the games?"

She looked ahead of her, eyes twinkling at recollections. "Yeah – about twice or thrice. I don't think mom liked it much. This one time, he lied to her and said that he was helping out at a shelter or something. Mom had this thing for public service. She said that everyone owed humanity something, and that we owed them more because we were pretty well off. Anyway, so dad made up this excuse to go to a game. It was a great excuse too, she didn't even ask him many questions about it.

"But then that evening, she drove down to the shelter after work to help him out, and he wasn't there. She got so worried. Called the police and everything! And then – then dad got home after she got off the phone with the cops, and she listened to him lie about how he'd helped out at the shelter, and she went _berserk_. Guess that part isn't quite funny. Before, they used to fight, but I think...after this happened, they fought more often. Until dad left, that is." At this, her head drooped slightly, and she grew quiet.

Velko reached out and brushed a loose strand of blonde hair from her face. "You miss him?"

"The thing is, he could sometimes be a real asshole, y'know? When he got his paycheck, he'd go to the liquor store across the street and buy himself a couple. I'm not even talking about the cheap stuff – he bought booze, but it was _quality_ booze. And then we had the second mortgage on the house – he'd taken it out himself, and he couldn't pay it, so there were times when we were months late. Mom had to work overtime to cover the payments.

"There was also the time when mom suspected him of having a bit on the side. I don't even _want_ to go there." She paused, turning glum. "But he was my dad, you know? I – I loved him. He drank, but he wasn't mean. At least, he was never mean to me. He's the one who started calling me Wildcat. He said that I reminded him of mom before he married her."

"Did you ever hear from him? You know, after..." asked Velko.

"He sent mom the child support checks. Was never late with those. He never sent me any letters, though. But after E-Day? Checks stopped coming – obviously."

"Do you ever wonder...?"

"...if he's alive? Yeah. Of course I do. Wouldn't you?"

Velko stuttered for a moment, as if caught off guard. "I uh – yeah, I guess I would."

She turned to him, serious; brows knotted together. "You never told me what happened to your parents."

"There's not much to tell. They died when I was four. My aunt took care of me."

"Don't you miss them?"

He sighed. "I suppose I miss the _thought_ of having parents; I guess I felt cheated out of something that lots of people had. But I can't say that I miss them specifically."

"_The heart can't long for an attachment that it never had in the first place_," murmured the girl. "Mom used to say the same thing about her parents. They died in a car accident when she was little." She paused, and let out a breath. "Velko?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we talk about something else? Please?"

He gave a short, dry laugh. "Yeah, we can."

"Are you gonna leave again today?"

Velko gave the girl a knowing look. "I thought we were gonna talk about something light,"

"Just – just answer this one question. It's been on my mind."

"If I need to, then I will. You know what I have to do, Janey. I can't leave them if they're still alive. I'm obligated to find them."

She frowned and averted her gaze. "There are Gears here, now. They can find your missing team, can't they?"

"I'm a Gear too, kiddo. And...they were like my family. I can't let them go that easy. There's things you have to do, there are some things that won't leave you alone. You can't avoid them. I'd never forgive myself if I turned my back on Tom and Susie. They had families too. And if this war ends, and I come back without news, and I don't know what happened, what am I gonna tell their families? I couldn't face them."

Janey looked at the man, her eyes pleading and earnest. "You have a family here as well. There's...stuff here that can keep you going, you know,"

It was Velko's turn to look away. Emotions were sticky; they adhered to things, people, places. He'd always thought of himself as cold, especially after the medical operations and the changes he'd made to his body. Even the metal that resided within him seem to contribute to this new persona. But as always, unforeseeable events had overshadowed schemes, and had decimated man's fragile plans.

He'd allied himself with Owens for the sake of resources and aid. It was the logical choice to make. An alliance didn't necessarily imply that emotional attachment was part of the deal, and that certainty was what kept him going; it kept him focused. But a vulnerability that had been exposed by this fifteen-year-old creature had somehow managed to steer him off course. At the very least, it had made him think twice about his loyalties to his missing friends.

And it was just that – this hesitation, this trepidation that irked him. It made him feel like a traitor.

"If it were you who was missing," he began, "instead of them, would you like me to give up on you too?"

Janey narrowed her eyes. He was backing her into a corner again. She wasn't sure if she liked it. "If it had been a while – yeah, I'd want you to get on with your life." The words seemed to slur together, the mild incoherence betraying her reluctant answer.

"Liar, liar," said Velko quietly.

"I'm _not_ lying," she shot back. "I wouldn't give up the living for the dead."

"_I can't leave them_." he said, finally. It was the way in which he had said it; it was the severity of his tone that had reached out and slammed the book shut on the topic.

The young girl stayed silent for a spell. And when she spoke, it was clear that she'd caught on. "If you leave again, who's coming with you? Where will you be going?"

"I don't know who's coming along," replied Velko, "and as for where we're going – I've got a hunch we're headed for West Montevado." said the man as he recalled his conversation with Marcus the night before.

"What's in West Montevado?"

"Beats me," lied Velko. _Perhaps_, he thought, _the less I talk about it, the less concerned she would be_.

"Are those Gears going with you? Is Owens going?"

"Those aren't my decisions to make."

Janey redirected her gaze towards the window and bit her lower lip. "Ever since they got here, things have started to change. In some ways it's nice, y'know? But I don't think I'm as flexible as I used to be. I want so many things to go back to the way they were. I know, _I know_. Having extra pairs of hands is great, and we could use the extra weapons...but what if the Locust tracked them back here? Pike says that wherever a Gear goes, trouble is sure to follow."

Velk scoffed. "He would say that. Did it ever occur to you that it's the other way around? That Gears go wherever there's trouble?"

"No...I never thought of it that way." She turned to him with a jerk of the head, and looked at him quizzically. "Are you _defending_ them? I thought you couldn't stand them – especially that one guy – the one who looks like a washed-out rock star."

He laughed, unable to help himself. "Marcus? _Marcus Fenix_? Ha – he'll get a kick out of that line; if he had a sense of humour."

"_Don't_ change the subject. I thought he got on your nerves."

He pointed a finger at himself, incredulous. "_Me?_ When did I ever tell you that?"

Janey turned her head to a side and rolled her eyes. "You don't need to _tell_ me things for me to know them. _Jeez_. What kinda asswipe do you take me for?"

Velko shook his head. _Looks like a woman's intuition blossomed at a young age along with her wit. Lucky me_. "Cut the sass," he snapped. "And anyway, what's the big deal? So me and him don't get along. _So what?_"

She gave him a cynical look from the corner of her eyes. One that seemed knowing and guilty at the same time. "I saw you guys duke it out last night."

The man groaned, shifting his position so that he was now leaning against the wall. He threw his head backwards with a deliberate and audible _thunk_.

She went on. "I thought you could take him, but looks to me that he creamed you pretty good. For a washed-out rock star."

"Just stay out of my fucking business."

"He's got it in it for you, Sebastian. If you get landed with him on tonight's run, he ain't gonna watch your back. I can _feel_ it."

He sat forward, reached out and grabbed her chin, turning it towards him. The action wasn't particularly forceful, but neither was it gentle. If anything, it felt cold. "Listen to me, _Jane_. This run? Doing it is _my_ decision. Not Owens', not Grove's, and it sure as hell isn't yours. And Marcus Fenix may be the scum of the earth, but he isn't going to let us bleed out. You know how I know? Because we're scum of the same sort. And I would _never_ let anyone who isn't fucking Locust bleed out either." And then, without another word, he swung his legs off his bunk and stormed out of the cabin.

The girl remained seated, a little breathless. "Sebastian Velko, you're a _fucking asshole_," she muttered. "_The biggest fucking asshole on the planet_."

* * *

**10 hours ago**

"So what do you think?"

Marcus studied the grey eyes that peered out at him from underneath bushy brows. He looked away, glancing again at the poorly-scrawled note before letting out a heavy breath. "He's spot on with the banshee line," he grumbled. "I got no clue what he means about _bread_, though."

Owens nodded, eager to hear the younger man's interpretation of these written claims. "Yeah? What about '_DOC_'? What do you think's up with that?"

"Could be _doctor_..."

"That's what Mae said too. Which reminds me, breathe a word of this to her and I'll lock you up in solitary."

Marcus grimaced, recollecting the term of his own imprisonment by the COG, but the reflex went by unnoticed.

"The thing is, Fenix, this note here has got my feathers ruffled, and to say the least – that's an understatement." admitted the General. "I'd like nothing more than to dismiss it, but the decades I've spent fighting in wars won't allow me to do that. Intel – solid or no – needs to be confirmed. I'm just at a loss as to how to go about it."

Marcus' mouth turned downwards into a familiar scowl. He rested one hand against the hull of the APC and brought up the piece of paper to eye-level. He'd looked through it a dozen times, and already – these repetitive observations had become a habit. But this time, he seemed to gaze _through_ the man's handwriting, and into thoughts of his own. His mind led him into the maze that had been _New Hope_, and within such memories, he listened to echoes of the intercom reverberate across the facility's walls – the voice that had been that of Dr. Samson's. Now, it was obvious that the dying man couldn't have specifically been referring to Dr. Samson, but the possibility that he was in fact alluding to a physician nagged at him.

"I'm gonna need the APC." said Marcus suddenly, so out of the blue that Owens merely stared back at him, wordless.

The older man had managed to find his voice, however, because he quickly spoke, "What the hell for?"

"We need to get to West Montevado. I got a hunch that whatever's out there has some answers for us."

Owens shook his head. "No way. That's the only operating vehicle we've got here."

"What about the jeep by Grove's cabin?" Marcus jerked his thumb behind him.

"_That _thing?" said Owens, incredulous, "It's a clunker. It's Grove's pet project. He's been working on it for _two_ months. No. No dice. You can't take the APC."

Nonplussed, Marcus held up an alternative offer. "Then let me talk with the prisoner."

"You can't,"

"Why not?"

"Because he died a couple hours ago, Fenix."

The Sergeant shut his eyes. Without opening them, he insisted, "I need that APC, _General_." He placed emphasis on the older man's title. He didn't intend to flatter or stroke the General's ego, but rather, he sought to show him respect, and that his request bore more urgency than insolence. And Marcus wanted to remind him, more than anything, that he was still a Gear.

Owens' lips tightened.

"I understand if you don't trust us with it," Marcus added, "you can tag along if you want."

The General placed his hands on his hips, and shook his head in disbelief. "You've got _some_ nerve," he admitted, with a grudging smile. "Okay. So what the hell's in West Montevado that's got you in a tizzy?"

Marcus paused. "Have you spoken with Velko?"

Owens knitted his brows together and indicated that he hadn't.

_Maybe this wasn't the time to divulge family secrets_, thought Marcus to himself. There was time enough for that later, and the truth would sound better coming from the source itself. "I've got some intel...about a military hospital out there. We've put a couple pieces together that might suggest that there's information to be had."

"Information regarding _what_?"

"This note – for starters. Other than that – we don't know."

"Come on, Fenix," urged Owens, finally starting to get irritated, "gimme a little credit. I'm not a complete imbecile. _Look_. You're asking me for a more-than-heavy favour here. Quid pro quo, Sergeant."

Marcus sighed as his shoulders drooped, and relented. "Before Jacinto went under, Command directed us to a military installation – well, it was more of a research facility. We initially thought the COG kept POWs there. Now...we're not so sure."

"I hate to ask why..." murmured Owens, despite his curiousity.

"There were these stasis tanks – they had life support tubes. And they had some crap in 'em."

Owens froze for several moments, his gaze unwavering, and he blinked once during that span. "_Crap?_ As in crap that could _think_?"

"Crap that could think and run and _kill_."

"I'm guessing that this _uh_ – fully operational crap was organic, and not human...."

"You would be guessing right, General."

In the distance, Owens saw Pike and Grove lift equipment towards one of the wooden cabins. Pike's hand lost its grip on the object and he dropped it with a _thud_, inciting a flare and flurry of curses on Grove's part. Jonesy, who had seen the pair struggle with their load, came to their assistance.

From the opposite side of the clearing, Mae had finally emerged from the cabin in which she had tended to the injured man. She wiped her hands on her trousers, and stood on the cabin's porch, blinking in the strong afternoon sunlight. Absently and inadvertently, Owens found himself wondering about what she'd done with the empty morphine bottles, the bloodied sheets and the worn bandages.

" – all I know, General." came Marcus' gruff voice, as it sliced through Owens' efforts at distraction.

"What?"

"_That's all I know_," repeated the Sergeant. "So I'm thinking, that if we're lucky, maybe this hospital in Montevado might have some references, names, that we can use to piece things together."

"I've heard of St. Luke's, Fenix," said Owens, thoughts descending back into the now. "I'll guarantee you that it's abandoned too. And it's just a hospital. Military or otherwise, what makes you think that there are going to be records that'll tattle about what went on at this other facility you mentioned? I've had my share of dalliances with confidential operations, and I've met the people who orchestrate them. They're a tight-lipped bunch and they're wily enough to keep their work the same way. The chances of you finding loose info of that sort is slim – _at best_."

"_Can't cut it 'less you try it_." Marcus issued, eyeing him slyly. "Isn't that what you used to say?"

"That was another time."

"But you're still the same person,"

"Says who? _You?_" Owens snorted. "You're hardly fit to judge. _Look_," his face softened, "I've got a different sort of family to take care of now." He nodded into the distance, where Pike, Grove and Jonesy were unloading more equipment. The girl, Janey, now walked alongside them. "I can't abandon them. _But_...I can't leave you hanging either."

"What're you saying?"

"Take the APC. But Velko, Grove and Jonesy are gonna go with you to make sure you bring it back in one piece. And I want one of your men to stay back here – as collateral."

Marcus grinned.

"Now get gone, get you and your team prepped for this evening." The old man scowled, before turning around and muttering to himself, "I've somehow gotta explain how I've got myself into this mess. Mae'll have my head, that's for sure."


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note (10/24/10)**

**It's been a while since I've been on this long stretch of a train, and I'm here to bring on the pain by trying to wrap up this story! Ah, you poor, poor readers.**

**Nothing much to say, other than I hope that the people who enjoyed this story back in the day are still around to critique what I've added now. And for those who're courageous enough to read it from the start, well...  
**

* * *

**Present**

The armoured vehicle came to a dead stop; one so sudden that all of its occupants were jarred and startled by the arrest in momentum. Jonesy, who had – at the last minute – found some peace in sleep, accidentally bit down on his tongue, and the searing pain flared across his mouth as he was rudely awoken. His face contorted into a grimace and he mumbled indecipherable curses. Velko and Dom had nearly slid out of their seats, and had used their booted feet to prop themselves up awkwardly. Only Marcus and Baird had been saved from similar fates, each of them reasonably alert to have reached out for something to cling on to.

"_What the hell, man?_" cried out Baird, after the agitation had lessened.

"You may now remove your seatbelts and are free to move about the cabin," cracked Grove from the driver's compartment. But his voice wavered; the fluctuation disclosing his surprise as well.

Jonesy glanced about to ensure that the others were more or less alright, and then moved towards Grove's side. He placed an arm on the burly man and peered out the windshield along with him. The APCs headlights illuminated fallen and damaged debris by the wayside; rusted barrels and a marred road sign that read: _Construction Zone, Speed Limit: 45, Violators will be prosecuted_. But the vehicle's light-beams did not stretch farther, and only a dark blanket of black seemed to lie ahead of the road.

"Go around them," said Jonesy, pointing at the barrels and the road sign.

"I tried to – I can't," replied Grove. "I think I drove over something. There might be a road block."

Jonesy sighed and turned back to the others. They looked to him as if to ask what the matter was. "Some damned punks must've set up a road block," he explained. "Gonna get out and have myself a look-see."

"I'll come with," said Velko.

Outside, the pair made their way to the front of the vehicle. The sturdy metal bumper had been dented inwards, and the vehicle's front left tire lay turned to one side in an awkward position; lying atop a rock of some sort.

"Cement blocks," noted Velko, "look – they got them stretched all the way across the road. We're gonna have to back up and clear it ourselves."

Jonesy looked about him nervously. The dark silhouette of a pine forest lay within a short distance to their right, while a steep mountain slope sat on their left. Although they had agreed to stick to the roads in order to reach West Montevado, a shortcut in event of an emergency was a likely possibility. But nature had trimmed their options this night; ensuring that any driving through trees or over precipitous inclines would be nigh impossible.

Jonesy gazed back and forth from the mountainside to the cement barrier. "Terrific spot for an ambush, don't you think? I mean, it'll probably only take one shell to wipe out all six of us," he muttered, almost inaudibly.

But Velko didn't appear to have heard him. Instead he walked with deliberate strides towards the road sign and peered at it with great interest. He beckoned for his companion to join him. "Check this out," he urged.

The blond man squinted at the mud and rust below the printed construction warning, and widened his eyes. The writing was coarse and uneven, but even in the meager headlights of the APC, he could distinguish words. "_Locust checkpoint up ahead..." _he read out aloud,_ "...seven miles down the road, blind spot by lake. Turn around and save_... I can't make out the rest."

The younger man glanced at him and pursed his lips. "Guess we know what that means."

"_Ah hell_." groaned Jonesy. "How far ahead is this damned hospital?"

"Maybe six – seven clicks from here. I could be wrong."

Jonesy's shoulders slouched as he thumped his comrade on the back and began to move back inside the APC. "You're not wrong," he mumbled, "you might screw up the small stuff, but you're never off with measurements. Don't have to tell you how I hate it that you're right either."

* * *

In the end, the group of six had left it to a vote. Drive it or leg it. The final decision would have been unanimous if Grove had taken to walking. But the others had decided otherwise. Covertness surpassed any urgency, and even if the scrawled warnings weren't legit, _safe_ towered over _sorry_ – perpetuating the adage. So they turned off the APC headlights and drove slowly towards the forest's fringe. The wide, yet narrowly spaced, trunks of the redwoods therein would make any driving between the trees futile, so they parked the vehicle behind the dense growth of a copse of young saplings, and hoped that their ride was now rendered invisible.

The next referendum was only slightly more difficult than the first. With Owens' permission for the use of the APC came his terms of agreement. Under no condition was the vehicle to be left unattended. Surprisingly enough, Baird had volunteered to babysit the armoured hulk of a transport, but then – and even more surprisingly – Marcus vetoed the suggestion, and proposed that Dom was better suited to the task. Grove, Jonesy and Velko displayed no favouritism either way, and while Dom didn't utter a word of protest, he was unable to contain the incredulity that usurped his expression.

Perhaps then it was more for the sake of their brotherly relationship than for superiority that Dom had consented without fuss. Relieved that this last-minute decision hadn't raised hostilities, the five were ready to move out.

Before everyone departed, Dom – who was in charge of activating their geobot, JACK – returned inside the APC to retrieve it. He emerged from the rear, perplexed.

"Hey Marcus," he called, "where's JACK?"

It was Baird who answered instead. "You mean it isn't in the APC?"

The others hung back, mildly curious yet impatient to start moving.

"Uh...no."

"Then where the hell is it?" asked Baird.

"Cole must've forgotten to load it in," came Marcus' voice. "He did a weapons check right before we left. Must've been too preoccupied with that."

"It just doesn't – " began the usually-persistent Baird.

" – _Forget it_." directed Marcus, his voice cutting short any further conversation on the matter. "We've got a ways to go. Damned if we're gonna have to turn back just to get JACK. Let's get going. Anyone got a problem with that?"

Nobody said a word.

* * *

Only half an hour of their journey had elapsed before the complaints began.

"If this war is ever over, and someone decides to buy me a treadmill – I'll shoot them." spouted Baird, as he rearranged the weapons strapped to his back. "I'm gonna have to get myself a Vespa after this is all over. Gonna ride it _everywhere_. Even to the bathroom."

"Now there's an image," quipped Jonesy, as they trekked along the curving path.

Grove, who had been trudging alongside Jonesy, leaned over in mid-walk and whispered quickly into his ear. "Don't encourage the little bastard."

Jonesy eyed Grove; his gaze a mix of skepticism and puzzlement. And then, almost as if an invisible choreographer had beckoned for the continuation of a scene, Baird spoke up in response – on cue. "Do you think a Gear can get arthritis?" He rubbed his wrists for effect; "You wouldn't think it possible, huh? Well, let me tell you something: he can. I feel like I've jumped from being _twenty-eight_ to _sixty-eight_. Without anything in between."

"Care to make another jump?" murmured Jonesy under his breath, as he looked about him warily.

The terrain had taken a rockier turn, but only slightly. Like many a man-made machination, the path that had been carved into the mountainside could not escape the fate of Neglect. Moderately-sized boulders and multitudes of stones and pebbles had slid onto the road – most likely from landslides. There were also sporadic appearances of road signs that had keeled over in the wind, felled trees – rotting tree-stumps as remindful remnants, and – very rarely – stripped, overturned vehicles. All in all, however, such obstacles really weren't _proper_ obstacles, one only had to sidestep or navigate themselves around the impediments to get by.

And while these disjointed barriers only _bordered_ on encumbrances, they also served a greater yet more satisfying purpose: that of distraction.

Baird's chatter could be construed as distraction enough, but the small company yearned for a diversion from the diversion. The blond Gear was cleverly quiet with his running commentaries, in order to not to attract too much attention from any Locust in the vicinity, so there was little use for the _just shut up_ routine. However, despite Baird's low volume, the minute-to-minute narratives on his ongoing opines grated on his companions' nerves. Those who knew him better circumvented their own rebuttals and responses, and allowed for him to prattle on, seeing as how interjections only wrought further tirades. But the others – save for Grove – teetered between choices; to remain silent or give in to quick spurts of anger?

Velko's comment lent credibility to the latter.

"We haven't got far to go," he muttered, "so let's not make this trip any worse than it has to be."

The bait was inadvertent, yet enough for Baird to latch onto.

"Oh, _I'm sorry_," griped Baird, sugar-coating the sarcastic remark with feigned civility. Marcus winced; the expression barely perceptible, as Baird went on. "Am I ruining your evening stroll? But _please_, don't mind _me_. Let's talk about something else for a change. Let's talk about you. Maybe that way we can forget about Locust outposts and impending death."

A tart counter-attack brewed in Velko's mind, but he'd learned his lesson and chose to stay mum on the matter. A few moments of silence passed, until Baird recognized that the verbal criticisms and contradictions weren't forthcoming. He then resumed his solitary opinions as if nothing had happened.

As they walked, Marcus moved over by Velko's side. "Maybe I shoulda warned you." he said.

"About Baird?" Velko snorted. "Yeah. You should've. But it isn't like you're a shrink. You're not obligated to warn us. And this isn't like group therapy."

"He's not _always_ like this," remarked the Sergeant, with emphasis on _always_ – as if truly meant to say: _he's not always like this. Three percent of the time he's actually quiet_. "Baird's laying it on thick – even for him. Gets too chatty when he's nervous."

Velko offered a slight, accepting smile. But he couldn't help but wonder why the usually-reticent sergeant had initiated conversation. The overture seemed innocent enough in its nature, so Velko decided to welcome it. "What do you do to shut him up?" he asked.

"Beats me. The only person who gets closest to clamming him shut would be Cole. But wait, I'm not being fair," Marcus paused, "the Locust seem to have the best knack for it. Guess those bastards are useful for something after all."

The younger man chuckled. "Somehow, I don't think the Locust would see it the same way." The fleeting, lighthearted moment was snuffed out, and was suddenly replaced by gravity and contrition. "Hey Marcus, last night – my storming out of there, I was out of line."

Marcus raised his eyebrows a fraction. Apologizing was a monumental task in itself. But if that seemed tedious, then accepting apologies – verbalizing the gesture – seemed more gargantuan still. But _forgiveness?_ Well, forgiveness he could do.

He shook his head, dismissing last night's row with the brief gesticulation. "Forget it."

"I couldn't – and I can't – tell you who it was, who told me about that place. But it's funny, you know. My withholding his identity. Compromising sources seems like something you worry about in another time. Now? Now it just seems silly."

"Old habits die hard. Probably would've done the same."

Their discourse tapered off into silence until Velko resurrected it. "What exactly do you hope to find here? At this place we're going to?"

"Pieces to puzzles," answered Marcus simply.

"But it's just a hospital...and even if there _is_ something there, it's bound to be tied up in hard drives. And you don't need me to tell you that those computers are shot. You don't even have JACK – this might prove to be pretty academic."

"Not really, no."

"Why not?"

"We have you." was his slow response. "Or did you forget to recharge your batteries? You can tap your way into computers, can't you?"

"I – uh – yeah, I guess I can," Velko seemed mildly stunned; this sudden display of faith and the high esteem in which Velko's abilities were held in came far out of left field. "But I wouldn't bet the farm."

"In this game, kid, betting the farm's second nature. You'd better get used to it."


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note (10-23-11):** Obviously, since this story was begun pre-September 2011 and it is now post-September 2011, my plot does **not** follow the canon storyline. Still, I hope to get this damned thing finished soon - I feel like some characters need some serious redemption and there's a ton of loose ends to tie up. For the few who remember the plot, I'm very sorry for the hiatus. For those who don't, how lucky you are! ;)

* * *

The stillness of it all unnerved him.

On the ride here, their journey frequently descended into pockets of silences that were punctuated by various sounds. The latter consisted of abrupt and broken dialog – not quite _ho-hum_, but not stimulating either – the janglings and clankings of loose bits of metal on metal, the mild squeaking of dampened brake pads. Of course, the rain remained constant throughout the performance – playing its own bit part as loud white noise. It was difficult, being surrounded by five other people who – at the time – had eluded conversation so skillfully. But the pseudo-silence of one hour past had now been outfoxed and outdone by the greater stillness here, inside the belly of this alloy beast.

It had allowed for his roving mind's eye to dwell on the ugly, and more importantly, the painful.

Almost a year had gone. A year of piling layers upon layers of earth to shield himself from the memory that he had been the one to kill his own wife, to release her from her pain and captivity. But the clawings of self-loathing and regret had taken only fleeting seconds to dredge up her skeleton. And a skeleton she had certainly been.

If he had deigned to bow to madness, he might have been able to convince himself that the once-emaciated woman was not _his_ Maria; merely someone who had borrowed her frame and fragments of her attributes. But his heart seemed to know more than his mind could ever elucidate, and this was what made the pain all the more scorching.

_All that time. I had all that time to find her_.

If he had been there three, maybe two weeks earlier, she may have stood a chance at survival, and he may have had her back. Everything. Her warmth, her care, her essence. He could've had it all back. The timing now seemed to have been critical and cruel; and now a resolute instrument of torture.

_And did I even __**have**__ to shoot her? Maybe I should've taken her back with me. Maybe the doctors could've fixed her_.

All this time that he had devoted to the COG, to the Cause of all causes, and the headway that humanity seemed to have made, felt cheap and crude. Yes, he fought for family more than country; this was a kinship he'd shared with many soldiers. But Family needed him so badly, especially after four had been reduced to two – with the death of Sylvia and Benedicto. And then Maria had taken to involuntary bouts of silence, had refused food even...by then it was only a matter of time before she experienced hallucinations of her children.

_I should've quit the fucking COG. Should've learned that lesson right after Carlos died. I could've been with her then. I would've found her sooner._

_Shoulda, coulda, woulda_.

This callous flirtation with insanity continued, aided by the lack of companionship. But then, a noise that consisted of metal meeting flesh, or bone, or earth, arose suddenly, jarring him from his dark musings.

He instinctively reached for his lancer, scrambled towards the driver's compartment, and peered out of the smudged windshield. He saw nothing save for damp leaves and twigs and branches moving in accordance with the wet wind.

_What the hell...?_ Had he imagined it, then?

"I'm nuts," he told himself aloud – more for sanity's benefit than anything else, "but I _ain't_ crazy."

With that, he strode cautiously towards the exit at the vehicle's rear. He propped the metallic door open with his foot, and thrust the barrel of his Lancer out. Its tip – directed by the sweeping gaze of his eyes, panned the area before him. _Nothing_. He then stepped out of the APC and prowled around its corner.

Had his trigger finger been weighted with nerves and tension, he might've fired at what he saw.

* * *

"_There_ – I can see it from here," said Grove as he squinted in night's light.

The lush valley tapered to its concave base, and there sat a stolid structure; small from their angle, but that which would prove large on closer scrutiny. The darkened windows looked back at them with a detached hollowness. There also appeared to be a partial clearing at the abandoned hospital's entrance, but it was obscured by the far end of the building's overhang and thick vegetation.

The wind had died down to a breeze, but the rain seemed less willing to relent. Marcus stepped towards the edge of the road, stared over the gradual mountainside, and into the valley's basin.

After a few moments, he spoke. "Velko, come here." And when the young Corporal did so, Marcus pointed below him. "What's that down there? Is it what I think it is?"

Curious, the others bundled nearer as well.

Velko surveyed this pinpointed object, which appeared to curve its way into the hospital's domain. "Yeah," came his reply, "looks like a service road, alright."

"How the hell can you see that from way up here?" exclaimed Grove as he did a double-take from Velko's visage to the hospital.

"Corrective glasses," offered Marcus instead, as he shot Velko a warning look. And then, "You think it's accessible?"

"I don't know," said Velko.

Jonesy spoke up, thoughtful. "As accessible as any road like that can get. The main road seems to come up from the other end of the valley – it'd take us too long to hike there, and then hike down to reach the hospital from there. I vote we go the service route."

"Seems pretty sound to me," remarked Baird, "come on, Bossman, let's leg it."

But Marcus hadn't heard him. He stood separate from the group, his back turned to them.

"Marcus?" came Baird's voice. And following a further spell of silence, the blonde Gear spoke louder, concerned. "_Yo, Marcus!_" He sidled up to the Sergeant and followed his transfixed line of sight. "What is it?"

"_House_..." whispered Marcus – the sound only audible to the Corporal.

About half a mile away, near one of the valley's twin peaks, stood a two-storey house; a broad balcony stretched about its front. Even in the gloomy night, they could see that it was a shadow of what it had been those long years past. The exterior seemed to have withstood many horrors that its counterparts could not tolerate; the roof appeared intact – from their point of view anyway, and the quality brick and cement had refused to weather into crumbling shards. Even the balcony was in one piece. To have stood on it then must have pleased an observer's eyes, as the valley's sweeping vistas would have greeted them each day. But now it lay there, dejected, like an aged sentry who refused to leave his post.

"What _about_ the house?" queried Baird.

Marcus' lips parted slightly, and for an instant, his breath had replaced uncooperative words. "It's so..."

Baird flicked his eyes nervously from his Sergeant to the house. He wrapped his fingers around his lancer tighter. But there was no danger to be read from Marcus' demeanor; in fact, all his attention seemed to have been directed elsewhere, as if he were searching for something misplaced among memories.

"It's so _what?_" asked a frustrated and anxious Baird.

And then, just as quickly as the incident had occurred, Marcus turned his focus towards the group. With a furrow of his brows, he nodded in the direction of the hospital and began to walk. The others stood rooted in place, their own imaginations working furiously to deduce what had happened.

"All right guys," came Baird's clear voice, trying to anchor them back to reality, "let's move."

* * *

The courtyard may have been handsome in its time, but now it had been beaten down by the callous hands of battle and left to nature's devices. Had nighttime's grey palette been cast aside, the five men could have taken in the repugnant unkemptness of it all with more distaste than they had already consumed. But as it was, they were subconsciously grateful to be spared another additional eyesore.

The entrance nearest to the service road was not much of an entrance any longer. About twenty yards from its periphery lay coils of barbed wire and ominous-looking metals spokes. Ten yards in sat sandbags; stacked so as to maintain small rudimentary forts. Both lines of defense now seemed purely academic, seeing as how there were no weapons, no vehicles – and more importantly – no fighters.

Marcus stalked with caution through sizeable gaps in the barbed wire and sacks, and towards the back entryway. A heap of rubble piled itself within the opening and some of it had even spilled out onto the hospital's large stone porch. He looked about the blockade for a sign of exposed gaps but could not find any.

Grove and Velko, who had taken rear guard positions stood still, waiting for the Sergeant's verdict.

"Front entrance. No way we're gonna fit through here," was all he said.

They proceeded as directed and strolled carefully amidst scattered debris.

Grove moved closer to Velko as they walked, and leaned nearer to his companion. "What do you think happened back there?"

"What do you _think_ happened?" replied Velko as he looked nervously about himself. "Locust must've come, and they had to defend themselves."

"Yeah, but the _cave-in_?" Grove loosely nodded in the direction of the back entrance that now lay behind them.

"Boomer maybe...? I don't know. Doesn't matter much now anyway. Whoever was here blew this joint long before we came."

Grove paused, as if thinking, and then spoke again – his voice notably more hushed. "You okay with all this shit? These guys running this op without Owens?"

Velko let out a slight snort. "Man – you ought to listen to yourself. Didn't you use to be a Gear?"

Even in the meager light, Grove's eye twinkled. "Hey, don't you be throwing that at me," he said – good humouredly, "you used to be one too."

"And we're not now?" said Velko without flinching.

Grove shrugged. "We're half-breeds. And we gotta suffer the consequences." The younger man gave him a peculiar look, which caused Grove to elucidate further. "I can't lie – most of me trusts Owens over Fenix. A firefight being the exception. I doubt that Fenix would leave a man down; he doesn't seem like the type. But...when it comes to the bigger picture, he'll choose the COG over us. I mean, when this mission is done with, do you think Fenix is gonna use his own initiative and take us someplace safe? Give us supplies? Weapons? Aid? _Nah_. He'd have done what he came out here to do, and we'd have served our purpose."

Velko became reticent. He didn't know what to say. Grove certainly had a point, and Velko never believed that the COG had much chivalry anyway, so why did this bother him so?

He didn't have much time to debate the matter, because having arrived at the front entrance, an uneasy silence filled the air. The hospital's overhang sheltered the large entryway; glass sliding doors long gone. Several sandbags and coils of barbed wire had been set up as primary defenses just as the rear entrance had been, with the exception that it was constructed on a larger scale. Shallow pits of aged – and closed – emergence holes pockmarked the landscape, and rusted bullet casings cluttered the ground.

"Looks like the party's over," mumbled Grove, as he rested his lancer on his shoulder and loosely kicked out at the spent bullet casings.

Jonesy let out a low whistle. "Party was over a _long_ time ago, man."

"Cut the chatter," came Marcus' voice; quiet yet sharp. "We gotta do this just like we planned. Get your comm units on. Baird, you're with Grove. Velko, you're with me, and Jonesy: you play lookout. See that guard shack there?" He pointed in the direction of a muddied little shed – the window and door mostly busted and splintered inwards. Its cheap aluminum roof was scorched into a darker shade of grey, but for the most part it remained intact. "You're the new tenant. It isn't too exposed, so if we get visitors, you can warn us. But don't fucking shoot unless you're cornered, got that?"

"You expecting party crashers?" asked Jonesy, as he scanned his surroundings – almost as if he was expecting a Locust horde to flood the area at that very moment.

"No," replied Marcus, "the Locust don't usually try to resurrect the dead. But you can never be too careful."

"You got that right," concurred Baird with a snort.

As Jonesy walked away to take up his new residence, they ascended a small set of steps, and passed the threshold that separated the smell of cooler night air from a stale, mustier one.

"You guys know what to do," began Marcus, before he and Velko separated from their two remaining companions, "Velko and I are gonna look for a local drive. Try to get a sense for where they store some of their medical records. In the meantime, you two search for an auxiliary generator if you can't find the main one, or the server room. They're usually –"

"Marcus," interrupted Baird, "I know what a server looks like. And I know how to get it working. What _I'm_ worried about is you two. You don't have JACK. And you don't exactly have – uh – much field experience when it comes to this kind of engineering."

"I wouldn't really call it _field experience_," Velko put in, "But trust me, we'll be okay, I know a thing or two."

"A _thing or two_ isn't gonna get you into the system," explained Baird, "if you screw up the circuitry, it ain't like we've got a ton of fuses to spare. And that's not even the worst of it, create a short –"

The Sergeant's persistent scowl deepened. " – We don't have all night, Baird. We're gonna work our way around the right side. You do the left. Check in with us every ten minutes, and then we meet back here in three hours. You know what to do if we get hostiles, right?"

"Yeah, yeah," muttered Baird, as he and Grove started to walk in the opposite direction, "stand as stiff as a board and pretend we're fucking mannequins."

"Just don't pull that trigger," growled Marcus.

* * *

"So what did you say to Owens to make him lend you the APC?" began Velko, as they avoided debris that lay scattered across the floor while they walked.

At that moment, his mind was very reluctant to veer towards conversation, and Velko suspected that Marcus' reluctance may have outweighed his own, but the cheerless, deserted building set in him feelings of unease. And discourse was one of the few tools that served to counter such feelings, and at the very least – distract him from them.

Just as light could bring a room to life, darkness had the tenacity to suck it out. But this place – like many of its structural counterparts all over Sera – seemed to glare back at them with black malice. The grimy walls, the overturned furniture, and the crumbling floor tiles appeared to pool together painful and traumatic emotions, and allowed for them to hover over the pair as they worked their way inwards.

"Your guess is as good as mine," replied Marcus.

Velko's lips parted slightly in surprise. "You mean he _volunteered_ to give it to you?"

"I wouldn't go that far. I guess he must've felt that things are coming to a head."

"Do you feel the same way?"

Marcus shrugged; unwilling to commit either way. Velko did not persist, and decided to let the matter be.

The two men emerged from the large hospital lobby and into a broad corridor. They paused at its frame. The strip of the lengthy hallway contained less colour and more grays than the reception held; and it already began to play disturbingly with their minds. A string of adjacent rooms allowed for a little light to permeate into the enclosed alley, but the meager illumination preferred to trick the pair's eyes with shadows rather than comfort them.

The Sergeant looked up to where – almost directly above them – hung a sign. "Shine some light up there," he directed.

Velko did as asked and read the sign out loud. "Looks like we've got radiology, a pharmacy, administration..."

"Let's hit administration." Marcus walked forward purposefully, with a reluctant Velko in tow. "Come on. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can go home."

* * *

**Dom**

"_Christ!_" called out Dom, unable to contain himself. "What the _hell_ are you doing here? I was gonna shoot you!"

The girl's shock and disdain seemed to mirror his own, and as a result, she remained rooted in place – at a loss for what to do.

With large strides, Dom marched in her direction and threw the child an angry glower. Her eyes held very little defiance and too much uncertainty. " I didn't –" she began; her voice strained – teetering between colours of doubt and fear.

"_This isn't right_," said Dom – his voice low yet forceful. He yanked her roughly by the scruff of her jacket until he was behind her. He then pushed her forward, directing her towards the door of the APC.

Once inside, his astonishment was readily giving way to anger, and he wasn't afraid to show it. For a few, brief moments he stayed quiet; as if words could not paint an accurate enough response warranted by the situation. He would alternate from rubbing his forehead and then the back of his neck – and attempted to pace within the limited confines of the vehicle. The girl sat muted in a corner and braced herself.

A few mumbles under his breath soon ensued, and seconds later, they began to morph into sense, and unfortunately, words that she could comprehend.

"What the hell are you playing at?" he cried as he spun to face her. His eyes seemed to bore through to her, and carried a bitter concoction of rage and a heartfelt plea. "This isn't right – you being here," he repeated, "this is wrong. What were you thinking?"

"I don't know," she lied. Dom's reaction could just have easily been her mother's. She'd sampled a variety of adult tirades in the past – in fact, more often than not, she'd been at the receiving end – and had found it best to say as little as possible in her own defense.

"Do you know just how much you jeopardize by coming out here?"

"No..."

"If something happens, you could compromise everything. And then everything we came down here to do would be useless. And if you got caught..."

"I won't get caught," she interjected, unable to withhold the remark. She winced as soon as she had said it, and then tried desperately to retreat into silence.

"Do you want a gun? Is that it? Do you want to fight?"

She shook her head.

"_Then what the hell is it?_"

Nothing.

"_Fine._" said Dom; his tone both flat and severe. "But you _will_ tell me this: Does Owens even _know_ that you're out here? Does anyone know?"

"Yes," she said, wary of his temper; her voice small. "I left them a note."

Finally, and after a solid few minutes, Dom sat in the seat opposite hers. His brief fury waned, and weariness took residence in his eyes.

Seizing this respite in frayed emotion, she plucked up the courage to speak. "What are you going to do now?"

Dom lifted his gaze from his boots, and allowed for it to settle on her. "I don't know."


End file.
